


Straag Rod (The Turning Wheel), Book 1: Fate Goes Ever as it Must, Part 1

by SkyrimNut1



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, Elder Scrolls Online, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Altmer - Freeform, Crystal Tower, Dragon lore elder scrolls, Elder Scrolls Lore, F/M, Family, Gen, Jorrvaskr (Elder Scrolls), Old Dragonborn, Other, Revenge, Straag Rod, The Unrelenting Shadow, Vampire Hunter, alduin - Freeform, metaphysical, priest of Auri-el
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:01:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 74,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25388701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyrimNut1/pseuds/SkyrimNut1
Summary: A fanfiction that chronicles the story of the Altmer Äelberon of Dusk, the Last Dragonborn. Straag Rod is a tale that incorporates, interprets, reinterprets, and adds to the extensive lore of the Elderscrolls Universe and as a result, it often refers to events throughout all the Eras. In addition, to supplement the storytelling, various appendeces will be posted including author-written lore books, poetry, and timelines that put events of the story in context. I have been writing this fanfiction off and on since about 2014 and have posted it in multiple locations. I'm embarking on a rewrite of the text to address issues I had with it's initial draft and a good friend pointed me here. Her character will eventually make it into the narrative. I hope you enjoy.
Comments: 17
Kudos: 8





	1. The Dusken

**_14th of Rain’s Hand, 3E 431: Alinor, Summerset Isles_**

Crystal-Like-Law magisters Rynandor and Lilandtar observed the warriors sparring in the sunny courtyard as they settled down to an outdoor lunch, the curved stonework of the courtyard displaying the colors produced by the light refraction of the glass and crystal towers above them. In this unusually warm spring day, the resulting kaleidoscopes of color and pattern was almost dizzying, and Archmagister Rynandor the Bold could tell that Magister Lilandtar was uncomfortable while he picked at his salmon. Probably not the best choice of cuisine considering the heat and the intense color display outdoors, but Lilandtar was always a stubborn Elf. The old Mer kept fidgeting with his ornately jeweled purple velvet robes, picking at a lime green stone at the junction of the cuff of the bell sleeve of his left arm. It was askew in a way that would only bother an Altmer that was already bothered by something else. 

Granted, Lilandtar was probably also unclear as to why Rynandor had dragged him all the way to Alinor's Training Center and Crystal-Like-Law’s Archmagister admitted that he was being rather obtuse with his reasoning. Officially, they were guest lecturers from the Crystal Tower; a training center for warriors was not where they were supposed to be. Lilandtar was supposed to be revising his extensive notes for a lecture to be given at the Lecture Hall for the Office of Provincial Studies, not sweating profusely watching warriors pretending to kill each other and Rynandor understood that. But Rynandor was always of a notion to be as efficient as possible in his travels – his duties as archmagister did not allow the luxury of dawdling – and when an opportunity to complete multiple tasks presented itself, he would take it. As far as Rynandor was concerned, they were presenting valuable research to scholars in Alinor, enjoying a delightful lunch, and taking care of a pressing matter that Rynandor wanted dealt with sooner rather than later. It was efficient and even Lilandtar, for all his penchant for excess as the current Lord of House Larethian, could rally behind the display of Altmeri efficiency. It was worth the heat and the faintly offensive odor coming from the sparring Altmeri warriors.

“So why are we even here?” Spoken with just enough of a whine to tear the Archmagister's eyes away from his meal. It was the fourth time Lilandtar had asked.

“I think it is time we chose a pair of Knight Guardians,” Rynandor answered, knowing full well where this conversation was headed while he took a bite of tender salmon. He refused to let it spoil his appetite. 

“Oh, this has obsessed you for months!" dismissed Lilandtar as he sipped wine. "Why? What is the threat? Rynandor, there is nothing wrong and it’s hot outside and frankly, the mer fighting… reek." Lilandtar could not suppress the chuckle at his next words. "Though nothing can possibly smell worse than the trolls that currently guard the Tower."

“Do not be such a naggy She-Elf,” retorted Rynandor with a smile, because the troll remark was indeed true.

"You mean, do not be like my mother?" shot back Lilandtar.

"Precisely." Rynandor replied with a knowing smirk, reaching for his own wine. He was going to need it. 

“Auri-El bless her and keep her.” Lilandtar offered, raising his glass.

The Archmagister raised his own and they brought their glasses together in toast. “Blessings!” He set down his glass and took another bite of salmon. “Is the Grand Kinslady Lilisephona well?”

“Well? Depends on your definition. Healthy? Aye, the old hag will probably never die.” The mage’s intense apple green eyes narrowed in disdain, “she has been utterly preserved by the hooka she smokes. Positively pickled by the brandy she drinks.”

“Lilandtar! For shame!” Rynandor whispered, though he was trying not to laugh. It was an accurate description of the Grand Kinslady.

“What? Tis the truth,” a hand to his heart, “so help me Auri-El. I speak no lies.” Lilandtar winked.

Rynandor the Bold rolled his eyes. It was back to steering this conversation to the matter at hand. “We lost Mer to the Beautiful attack last year.”

“The salon ruffians.” Lilandtar grumbled. “Nothing but terrorists. We defeated them easily.” 

Rynandor nodded in agreement. “Aye, they do not value our traditions, our ways. They are dangerous, Lilandtar, with their insane notions of Altmer superiority.” 

Lilandtar cocked an eyebrow and grinned. “But we _are_ superior.” 

“I know that, but they seek superiority through the desecration of our tombs, our Tower, destroying the past to make way for the future.” Rynandor felt the anger creep to his features, his skin growing hot. “There is something extremely unsettling about that. As if they want to rob us of our own history. They are violent now, riots, assassinations, and now the Tower? What we Altmer hold most dear.” He took a sip to calm himself. “I am Archmagister, I must see to the defenses of Crystal-Like-Law from these ‘salon ruffians’ as you call them. When the lecture opportunity presented itself, I thought I could kill two canah birds with one stone. You only need to bear with me for a few hours, enjoy a fine lunch, and then you can go back to your lecture notes, Lilandtar.” He leaned closer to Lord Larethian and locked eyes with him. 

“Please? For a friend?”

‘Fine.” Lilandtar blew a gust of air to communicate his annoyance but settled to his meal once more. Rynandor smiled and eyed the warriors training in the courtyard upon raised platforms designed for them to be watched, scrutinized by any who would wish to offer them patronage. Yes, he was smiling an Altmer’s placid, calming smile, but in his mind, there was urgency. His nightmares were getting worse. The visions… unspeakable. A sky of pure fire. Death. The Tower and the Stone. Dust. Rynandor cast the disturbing images from his mind. _It would never happen._

And then there was something else. Melodies of Man's icy North coming from the deep Elven South. The heady, sweet fragrance of drooping wisteria, and the salt of the sea. A Mer’s face, with an alabaster paleness he had not seen since the very last of the ancient Snow Elf refugees of Alinor passed to Aetherius. Pale, save the eyes, which were two fiery jewels, not blue, not the crystal blue typical of that race. They were not even Elven eyes, yet not the eyes of a vampire nor demon. He had never seen eyes like that in all his days…

Rynandor blinked hard and took another sip of alto wine, not wanting to be lost in the flood of thoughts and visions now. Better to drown it with wine. Drown the eventuality of death, of change, of passing, from one way to another. Another sip, the liquid warmth easing his soul. _Get a little drunk, Old Mer_ , he smiled to himself. 

The friends finished lunch and then walked toward the training warriors, almost floating towards them with their small, measured steps, the epitome of Altmeri scholarly refinement. Tall, slender and stately, lined of face and long of beard. Lilandtar had tucked his hands within his great bell sleeves, while Rynandor still favored his glass of wine, his simple indigo velvet robes with none of the ornate embroidery and jewels Lilandtar’s. Opposite in many ways, but still great friends, a balance of ideas and temperaments that saw Crystal-Like-Law thrive for many years. 

Rynandor could see that Lilandtar’s mind was focused on his upcoming lecture, his mouth was moving, silently reciting the text, while Rynandor watched the warriors with increased interest. Two sparring elves caught his attention. One of them was particularly slender and quick, athletic, and graceful. From one of the great Northern families, Rynandor guessed. The young Mer had the coloring typical of Cloudrest nobility, golden hair, golden eyes, refined features upon smooth golden skin. But it was the maroon and gold sash around his gilded Elven armor with moonstone accents that spoke the family name most clearly. Caemal. _Ah, it is young Vingalmo_ , Rynandor nodded to himself, remembering, the third son of that family. Met the boy at some function at his own ancestral home in Cloudrest. Yes, the boy _would_ be here. It was what was done with the third sons. Send them to train, in the hopes to perhaps acquire a patron or a post. They would then rise the ranks, become generals, and perhaps earn their own title and lands one day through service to the Eternal Isles. Because they certainly were not earning their ancestral lands. That exclusively went to the first son, or the first daughter in extenuating circumstances.

“That Kinsmer Caemal’s boy?” Asked Lilandtar, curiosity nabbing him as well.

“One of them. He is fighting quite well.”

“I can see that.” Lilandtar nodded approvingly as he leaned towards the Archmagister. “Knew the lad when he still clung to his wet nurse. Definitely not doing that now.”

“They do grow up eventually, Lilandtar.” Rynandor gave the old Mer a side glance.

Yet they were all children to the two tower mages. More than likely, the warriors in the training yard were between the ages of thirty to sixty, or even seventy if they possessed lower than average skills. Grown Mer and She-Elves proper, but to two Elves who were into their seventh and eighth centuries, Elves who had witnessed the conquering of Summerset, anyone below their fifth century were like children.

“Old Kinsmer Caemal owes me money.” Lilandtar grumbled.

“That has nothing to do with young Vingalmo’s fighting.” Rynandor could no longer contain his curiosity and turned to his good friend, raising an eyebrow. “How much?”

“A trifle really, only 40,000 talons.”

Rynandor nearly spit out his wine but managed to contain himself. One Mer’s trifle was another’s fortune! Rynandor’s own house was wealthy, but he maintained only his salary as Archmagister. It was a comfortable life, but 40,000 talons was a large sum to him. “Another bet?”

Lilandtar grinned. The Mer loved a good gamble. It was, to be honest, a vice of many an Altmer. “Of course. And I always win. I should pay them a visit. Go home for a spell. See the wife.” He moved his hand over his stomach, tracing a large belly, “she’s getting so big, Rynandor. Bigger than she was with Lillandril.”

Rynandor raised his eyebrows, seeing his opportunity. “May I remind you that your mother is also at home.”

Lilandtar’s made a sour face. “Oghma’s tits, that’s right, damn it. I could _send_ for my wife, then I don’t have to see my mother.”

Rynandor chuckled, but understood Lilandtar’s predicament. He would not want to see the Grand Kinslady either. “Lillandril would like the Tower, I think. How old is he now? 

“About to turn five and that would be a nice present for him. A visit to the Tower. I don’t think he would ever leave the menagerie. He could verily blend in with the animals, such a crazy one.”

“Like his father?”

The old Elf swelled with pride and stroked his dark-grey beard. “The very image. Dare I say that I make beautiful babies?”

“Your lovely wife _does_ help.” Rynandor pointed out. 

“A little bit.” 

They shared a laugh and Rynandor gave his shoulder a pat. The only one besides his wife and children that Lilandtar would let touch. “Then make the arrangements. You can then see the birth of your new one. A girl?”

“That is what the healers say.” Lilandtar nodded with pride. “Another black-haired beauty.”

“Could have red hair.” 

Lilandtar shook his head. “No, that skips a generation. Their _children_ will have red hair. I know how my family’s bloodlines work. And thank you, Archmagister. Saves me a trip to Cloudrest. The 40,000 talons can certainly wait. It is not like I _need_ the money. I will always be richer than House Caemal.” The patriarch of house Larethian focused on the fighting again. “The boy is fighting well. Making a right show of it.”

Young Vingalmo was doing well, Rynandor noticed. His sparring partner was already on the floor, heaving. The lad removed his helm, not even sweating, and peered at the others who were observing the sparring, his smile betraying his pride. “Who’s next?” Rynandor heard him ask, still with the energy to practice his stances while he spoke. A jab to the air with his weapon. “Who else shall I send to the floor today?”

The small crowd of soldiers laughed, shaking their heads, and raising their hands to put distance between themselves and the young kinsmer, but Rynandor could see that it was all in good fun. They were all young and in high spirits, paragons of Altmeri youth and vigor in their gleaming elven armor.

“Oh come on! Not a single one?” Vingalmo challenged, eyeing a certain direction, as if he were addressing someone while he still practiced. “There has to be _one_.” He teased, but no one in the crowd budged, though Rynandor could see that they were trying not to laugh. “1,000 talons says I cannot be bested! A thousand talons. Someone surely wants a thousand talons…”

Still no one.

The silence was broken with a low chuckle. Rynandor’s eyes followed the sound to a stone bench under a blooming cherry tree near the sparring platform. Where casually, amid the falling petals, sat the largest Elf Rynandor had ever seen. He was close to the size of a Jaguar-man, the Cathay-rahts of Elsweyr. He was covered head to toe in a heavy, dull steel plating with a weathered gryphon motif upon the breastplate and a helm that completely obscured his face. An old set of armor it looked to Rynandor, full of dents and dings from combat, but otherwise well-oiled and in good repair. Some extended plating along the chest, arms and legs suggested that the armor did not originally belong to the Mer wearing it, but rather, was fitted to him. Second hand. He was using a whetting stone on a blade, sharpening it, and Rynandor noticed a bundle of weapons tied securely with a leather strap. An armored servant perhaps, or a guard for one of the houses, Rynandor guessed, but he could not see any house colors on the Elf. 

“A thousand, ya say?” Rather forward to ask, Rynandor thought. A low, not unpleasant voice, boarding on soft spoken, but with one of the most atrocious Dusken accents he had ever heard.

Vingalmo grinned ear to ear, flashing perfect teeth. “Yes, a thousand, my good Mer.”

“Ya sure ya feel like losin’ a thousand t’day, Caemal?” Another act of boldness. “Don wanna put ya out.”

“Who says I will lose? I always win. Speaking of winning, what will I get for winning _this_ time?” 

The figure sighed, taking a pause from sharpening the blade he was working on. “Hmm, lemme think. We should raise tha stakes, spice things up, eh?”

Vingalmo nodded. “We certainly can.”

“Aye. So, I’m doin’ the blades now, just finished tha armor…cleaned the chamber pots last Tirdas, cooked on Loredas…”

“Uh, let’s not have you cook again, friend.” Vingalmo interjected, a sour face marring his handsome features as he shook his head.

“Tha demon in me says I should, just ta make ya suffer, but me own stomach bloody agrees with ya. I dunno…”

“Don’t cook!” The entire group of young warriors cried in unison.

“Alright, alright, I won’t. But what ta do?”

By now the group was chuckling and watching the Mer sitting on the bench think.

“Come one, Steel Plate!”

“You can’t resist it!”

“One thousand talons!”

“Do it!”

They laughed and Rynandor perceived a change in Vingalmo, a softening of his features. The young Mer shook his head and the smile was sincere. Whomever the other Elf was, he was held in high regard. “You don’t have to. You’ve nothing to prove.”

“Well, seein’ as it’ll be Sundas come tha 'morrow, I expect Auri-El will want me ta get me ‘ands dirty ta show me penance fer tha pride I’m about to be guilty of. So, chamber pots it is.” There was a deliberate nod from the helmeted head. “But if ya lose, Caemal, it’s chamber pots and a thousand talons from ya.”

Rynandor observed the young noble grin at the show of spirit. “Done. On my honor and the honor of my House.” Vingalmo bowed graciously.

The figure rose from the bench. “Then let’s dance, Caemal.”

The crowd erupted in a frenzy of cheers, patting the steel plated warrior on his broad shoulders and back while he made his way towards Vingalmo at the platform.

“Xarxes’ arse!” Rynandor heard over his shoulder, smelling Lilandtar’s wine-laced breath while he whispered. “That has got to be the thickest Dusken accent I have ever heard. I barely understood anything he said.” He was clearly seeing the same thing Rynandor was. Yes, it was pure Dusken, but what was a servant doing answering Vingalmo’s challenge?

More rowdy cheers when the Dusken vaulted up onto the platform, with a lot more finesse than Rynandor expected from an Elf that size. One other Elf was taking bets from the crowd and it was clear that from Vigalmo’s warm greeting of the Dusken that this was something the two did frequently, to the apparent detriment of the Dusken. Yes, there were classes and yes, the nobles far outshined most other echelons in society, save the Wise, but it was still highly uncouth to exploit a servant like that, at least in a public setting. Rynandor quickly scanned for officers of rank, but saw no one, before stopping one of the betting elves with a gesture of his hand.

“Who is that?” He gestured with his head towards Vingalmo and the figure, while they readied their weapons. At least the Dusken was. From watching Vingalmo spar, it was already noted that the young lord conjured his weapons. 

“That is young Caemal, my lord.” The soldier answered.

“I know that. The other one? Is that a servant?”

The golden young Elf blinked, as if surprised. “The other one? Oh him. That is Steel Plate." 

"Steel Plate is not a name, youngling."

"Sorry, my lord, that's what we call him. Nickname. He’s Dusken. Alebaron, or Alboron is his name, I think, something like that. Well, a Dusken at any rate. Been here a while.” He explained. “They say everything is larger in the deep South.” A musical chuckle escaped his perfect Elven lips, his deep yellow eyes twinkling. “Well, except maybe the brains.” He suddenly noticed their ornate robes, one indigo and the other purple, and cleared his throat, giving a quick bow of respect. “Forgive me, Archmagister for not immediately recognizing you. I will tell them to stop this foolishness.”

Rynandor gave the young Mer a secure pat on the shoulder. “That will not be necessary, it is alright to have a bit of fun, once in a while. But why is a servant sparring with a soldier, a noble for that matter?”

“Oh, Steel Plate’s not a servant, my lord, went through old Master Sergeant Nandrion of Skywatch just like the rest of us did. He’s free born.”

“By the Bow, is that old bag of bones is still alive?” Lilandtar whispered.

“Apparently, still putting fear into the hearts of young Elves everywhere too.” Rynandor smirked.

The young Elf chortled. “Aye, that he does, but do not tell the Sergeant we agree with you. The bundle of swords Steel Plate’s currently sharpening is from the _last_ bet he made with young Caemal. Has to sharpen our whole company’s blades after Kinsmer Vingalmo knocked him flat on his arse. He gets knocked down all the time, but the stubborn Dusken gets right back up again. Like a bulldog that one is. Won’t quit. It’s admirable in a way, even though you can’t beat a conjured weapon. It’s impossible. I think he’s cleaned just about everything in this compound for all his trying.” 

Rynandor raised his eyebrows. “I see. You may go. We will watch.”

“Want to place a bet, my lord?” The young Mer asked and then immediately regretted the question.

He was about to say a staunch ‘no’, but Lilandtar made sure that did not happen. “I will see young Caemal’s 1000 talons. On the Dusken.” Lilandtar handed the boy gold.

“You’re betting on the Dusken?” Rynandor asked, puzzled by Lilandtar’s impulsiveness. “This young Mer just told us he was knocked flat on his arse and loses every time. Lad, here are 1000 talons on young Lord Caemal. Unlike others here, I intend to _win_.”

The Elf grinned and bowed after taking their money. “Very good, Lord Larethian, Archmagister.” He jogged to the crowd and there were lusty cheers and laughter when it was learned that two proper mages from Crystal-Like-Law were joining in this most disrespectful of endeavors. If the old curmudgeon Master Sergeant walked in right now. _Ah, Rynandor, you have made your bed, now lie in it. Besides, you can charm your way around that old bag of bones._

They took their places on the bench, looking prim and proper, their backs straight. Rynandor stroked his long light blond beard and leaned towards Lilandtar. “Lord Larethian, you will lose. A thousand talons, really. On a Dusken, no less.” Rynandor scoffed. “You are a mad, mad Mer.”

The noble Elf gave Ryandnor a side glance, the keen apple green eyes narrowing, and smiled.

***

_WHY_ was he fidgeting so, thought Lilandtar while he delivered his lecture to an attentive crowd at the Office of Provincial Studies. It was on _Metaphysics Relating to the Application of Enchantments by Bending the Law of Firsts_ and he was, as always, brilliant. But Rynandor did not look like he was paying _ANY_ attention. He even seemed itching to _leave_! He may be confidently giving his lecture on the outside, but inside Lilandtar was sulking. Of all the people _NOT_ to pay devoted attention to him, his dear friend!

And then he remembered. Rynandor the Bold, the Archmagister of Crystal-Like-Law, had lost. Was knocked flat on _his_ arse, figuratively, while young Caemal was knocked flat on his arse literally. The Dusken, to everyone’s shock, won, moving, and fighting better than any expected. It had been a most excellent spar and as far as Lilandtar was concerned, despite losing, young Caemal had more than earned his spot as his Tower Guard and the Dusken got his 1000 talons. And the future pleasure of watching the son of a powerful lord clean up his shit. Not that Altmer shit a lot, only every five days or so, but there was likely to be at least one piece of shit in the company’s chamber pots that evening for Vingalmo to pick up. Hopefully the Dusken was saving one giant crap just for young Vingalmo. As for the money, it was probably more money than the poor creature had seen in his entire life. House Caemal was nearly as wealthy as his own house and young Caemal showed some manners by being a good sport about it. Rynandor, however, not so much. It was fun to see him bluster in surprise, become grouchy, and then try to hide it, stroking his beard so fervently that Lilandtar thought it was going to verily fall off.

Lilandtar did not dwell on it, though, when he heard the thunderous applause after uttering the last word of his lecture. It was, of course, completely warranted. Lilandtar smiled, he was exceptional. He stepped away from the raised carved wooden podium and was immediately swarmed by his adoring fans clamoring up the marble steps. Asking him all sorts of questions about Bending the Law of Firsts, what was the Crystal Tower like, numerous invitations to dinner. It was all very tedious after a while and he was growing tired of so many Elves breathing on him and the cloying smell of Altmeri cologne.

He was surrounded by a particularly inquisitive group when Rynandor approached, ever stroking his long, light blond beard with one hand, and grabbing him by the elbow with the other to gently lead him away from the crowd. _YES! But easy, you will crush the velvet, my good friend and it is my best robe. Well, not really by best best, I have dozens, but it is a good one and one of my favorites of the purple shades._

“Pardon me, but Master Lilandtar and I have some important matters to discuss before we journey back to Crystal-Like-Law. Thank you for your attendance.” Rynandor curtly nodded to the visibly disappointed attendees. 

Lilandtar leaned towards Rynandor and whispered in his ear, “Thank you, I never thought they would stop pestering me with silly questions. I love it, of course, but it gets so boring after a while and I’m always afraid they will touch me. They never do, I mean, we are Altmer and all, but still, they come close and I know one day, I will feel a stranger’s skin.” He shuddered in revulsion, but quickly snapped out of it. “I was brilliant, though, was I not? I must admit, some of my best work.”

“You were excellent as always, friend. You have the gift to deliver lectures.” Rynandor nodded in complete agreement, though Lilandtar saw the wrinkles around the Archmagister’s eyes crinkling. _You patronize, but I know I was amazing_. 

“But I’m sulking. You weren’t paying attention.” Accused Lilandtar, his apple-green eyes narrowing. “Still grumbling about lunch? Your purse so, so, _so_ much lighter…”

He heard Rynandor sigh, and he allowed himself a grin. It was so pleasurable to tease the old windbag. “I _was_ paying attention.” The older Elf then furrowed his brow. “I really did not think he would win.”

“Then a lesson was learned today.” Lilandtar smirked.

“How about I tell the Grand Kinlady Lilisephona that you were betting on Duskens…” Lilandtar felt a pinch on his elbow, making him nearly yelp in pain. Of course, no one else saw because if there was anything old magisters could do extremely well, it was to disguise entire arguments and bloody battles under their sleeves.

“You just dislike losing.”

“I really do, don’t I.” The Archmagister begrudgingly admitted.

“Besides, I just gave a fantastic lecture; I’m entitled to a fine dinner and copious amounts of alcohol. You owe me that much for not paying attention and sulking about learning important life lessons on who to not underestimate. If all else, Dear, dear ‘Nandor, the size _alone_ should have told you who to bet on. That Dusken was huge. Young Caemal is an excellent fighter, but all the Dusken really had to do was look for an opening and then sit on him.”

“He did not do that. He actually fought. It was well done, especially against a Daedric blade.”

“I’ll admit, he’s a plucky one alright, but he’s from the south, it’s what they do, ‘Nandor, besides _fish_.” Lilandtar joked, crossing his arms over his chest, refusing to move any further. “So, dinner? I am withering away with starvation as we speak, losing angaids. It is very distressing.”

More eager Elves were approaching and Lilandtar flashed a grin when Rynandor ceded to Lilandtar's hunger pangs. “Very well, first the Temple, though, I need to go there. Then I will take you wherever you wish to go and buy you a fine dinner and all the alcohol you can drink myself. Just indulge me first.”

"I shall indulge, Archmagister. But why the Temple? If I may ask.”

“One of the youths said the Dusken was heading there after the spar.”

Lilandtar chuckled. “Probably to give praise for his good fortune. That is probably the most money he’s ever seen--” He stopped and stared at Rynandor, seeing the older Mer’s determined expression and started to slowly shake his head in disapproval. “Rynandor the Bold, I know that look. The Dusken? Are you mad? You cannot.”

“I can, and I will.” Rynandor, replied, now walking with purpose.

Lilandtar let out a gust of air and hurried after the Archmagister, his jaw still dropped in shock.

***

The two mages walked along Alinor’s bustling streets and through its grand Market Plaza line with cherry blossoms and myrtle, reaching the back entrance to the Temple of Auri-El just before sunset, its golden emblem on the heavy crystal double doors glowing in the waning light. It was the entrance all Altmer used, save those who belonged to the Order, save those who had walked the great Chantry, those who entered into Covenant with their God-King.

Those great souls entered through the Temple's front doors. 

Rynandor and Lilandtar entered the Temple and saw the back of the giant gold and moonstone statue of Auri-El standing sentinel over His people, bathed in the golden light of sunset as it filtered through the immense crystal windows. Rynandor could not help but draw his breath at the sheer grandeur of it, remembering the sermons on Sundas, the notices posted upon the walls. 

“It never ceases to amaze me.” Remarked Lilandtar. “I wish they would approve my proposal to expand the temple in Cloudrest. Alinor can’t have everything.”

Rynandor gave him a look. “Does Cloudrest have to always be the best?”

“If I’m living there, then yes.” The Elf nodded. “A few more crystal spires would be perfect.”

Rynandor made a sour face. “The Temple in Cloudrest is gorgeous, adding to it would just be tasteless.”

Lilandtar shook his head. “No, friend, tasteless is Firsthold, we at Cloudrest have class. Are we staying long? I do not see a giant elf in steel plate armor, do you?”

“Shh…temple.”

Lilandtar wrinkled his nose in disgust when someone brushed against his thin shoulder as they passed by. “I have been touched. You better know what you are doing, and I am hungry.”

“Stop complaining or, or… no dinner.”

“But?”

“No alcohol either, and no hooka!”

“Well!” Said through the Mer’s breath, but Lilandtar shut up long enough for Rynandor to continue his search for the Dusken. 

His golden eyes scanning the breadth of the Temple, searching… Where was he? There was no Elf clad in steel plate anywhere? Did he leave already? “I do not see him…” He whispered.

“Then let’s go.” Lilandtar insisted. “Abandon your foolishness. It will never be approved.”

“You forget I am Archmagister.”

“I am not forgetting anything, but you are not above the Ancestors, nor our customs. He is not of the right station. It was quite plain. The second hand armor, the accent.”

“I will decide!”

“You don't have to raise your voice, Rynandor. I can hear you fine from here. You are making a scene and people are noticing." Rynandor scowled at his friend but Lilandtar was undaunted. "Abandon it. He was fine for a lark, I enjoyed earning money from his show of viril strength, but no, Rynandor. He? A tower guard? For you? That will never happen.”

Frustrated, Rynandor threw up his arms in exasperation. “You do not see what I see.”

“I see that you are obsessed again. That you will not sleep. That you will pace around and stroke your beard pensively until I wonder if the hair will fall out until this matter is finished to your satisfaction.” Rynandor felt the old Mer rest a hand gently on his shoulder, the grey eyebrows over his green eyes raised in a gesture of concern. “‘Nandor, make me understand.” 

Rynandor gazed at his dear friend, trying to find the words, but he could not. There were no words for what he had seen in his visions. No words to make Lilandtar understand, even after a friendship of over five centuries. Tell the old Mer what? That everything was ending? That it would all go to shit? Tell that to a Mer who was only now, after years of such terrible loneliness, finally starting his family? His legacy. Rynandor frowned again and tore from Lilandtar’s gaze, searching the temple for any signs. Only feeling the compulsion to find the Dusken.

“What are you not telling me, ‘Nandor?”

“Enough! By Xarxes’ hairy fat arse, just enough!” He snapped.

Rynandor then froze, finally understanding what he had done, seeing the shocked Altmeri faces, the looks of disgust from some, the looks of concern from others. Only a minor infraction for a Mer of his status, because the Wise did no wrong, but he could still feel the wave of intense heat upon his face. The embarrassment. He had just cursed in the Temple of Auri-El. “I’m just tired, my friend.” He sighed weakly, letting his shoulders stoop.

“Then let us go, eat, relax.” Lilandtar offered.

Rynandor nodded and the two made for the Temple’s exit.

“Are you looking for me?”

 _Well bloody Oblivion, the elusive Dusken_. He recognized the timbre of the voice and Rynandor turned around. It _was_ him. The physique matched, though the dress did not. No second hand steel plate. Instead, he was clad in humble roughspun robes. Rynandor’s eyes widened. Roughspun robes with an emblem of the sun upon the chest. The robes of the Order of Auri-El. His brow lowered, robes of Auri-El with peculiarly wet sleeves. The large Mer was broad of shoulder, yet long of limb. Interesting, he had sparred Vingalmo with a sword and shield, yet the arms and hands, with their long, strong fingers betrayed a life long spent with the bow. 

And... _by_ _Auri-El’s bow, you are an ugly Mer_ , Rynandor thought as he stared, the blurred image of his dreams suddenly coming into full focus. The face was long, the jaw firm and square, the nose distinctly aquiline and unforgiving. The mouth was nicely shaped, but it could not overcome the rest of the face, which was cut of hard lines, as if the youth had known some hunger in his life. The youth’s eyes settled on his and they too, were as his vision. Like two points of jeweled fire, hooded under a brow far too serious for one so young. In fact, the face had a look of almost an eagle or a gryphon, which gave it a certain commanding air, now that Rynandor had time to process it. But it was the youth’s coloring that struck Rynandor most.

The boy was not pure Altmeri. The nearly white skin betrayed Falmeri blood while the facial features were harder to place. Not Nord, no human blood, no, definitely not. Gobliken? Orc? No, the ears were clearly, and rather nicely shaped, Altmeri ears and the teeth were contained within the mouth, the bite normal. _Perhaps Ayleid_ , Rynandor speculated. The Wild Elves were, sometimes, a warrior people, especially those from ancient Abagarlas. The young Mer definitely reflected Southern breeding, with its emphasis on strength rather than beauty and ancient bloodlines. It was the raw power that was coveted for the military of Summerset when the Khajiiti were foolishly not their allies. The power that showed humans that Elves were not just magic wielders with frail bodies, but could also possess great strength, their superior bodies pushed to the very limits.

The Mer bowed low, acknowledging the high status of the Mages. “One of my brothers mentioned that you were searching for me. My apologies, Masters, I was washing dishes at the lower chamber.”

“Washing dishes?” Lilandtar asked, raising his eyebrows, not bothering to mask his disgust at the frank mention of such menial labor.

“Healing and praying are not the only things that need doing to run a Temple properly, my Lord.”

The line was spoken with a candor that brought a smile to Rynandor’s face and a frown of disapproval to Lilandtar’s. The accent was different too. Gone was jarring, singson Dusken and in its place was a traditional, albeit outdated accent, though a bit of the curious Dusken syntax choices remained. At any rate, it was cultivated and Rynandor was now curious as to who had taught the boy to speak properly.

The youth gestured towards one of the smaller rooms away from the main Temple, “Please, would you like to enter one of the chambers to discuss the reason for your visit, or perhaps you are hungry? I am actually finished for the day; we can step out and eat if you wish. And please…” He bowed his head in deference. “Forgive my coarse speech from earlier at the training yard. They are my friends and I was unaware of your presence until the spar was finished. Otherwise, I would not have spoken that way,” another bow of respect, “especially not in your presence. It was crass of me and something I am still working on.”

Lilandtar gestured towards the Temple doors with his head and Rynandor could see the disapproval written on the Mer’s features morph into amusement, his green eyes practically dancing with mischief. Again, Rynandor had underestimated the situation. _You are curious to see how this plays out, eh? Me too._

“We will eat,” Rynandor finally found his voice, “but I insist that I cover the meal. I had promised my fellow Mage, Lord Larethian. He has just finished a brilliant lecture at the Office of Provincial Studies."

Lilandtar beamed and Rynandor had to suppress a groan. _You know I am going to get in trouble._ Was he though? If he believed what he was seeing, this youth, while still a Dusken of mixed heritage, was also associated with the Order of Auri-El. _Well, he is a dishwasher, you do not yet know his full capacity within the Order._ Rynandor gave the young Mer a once over. Aye, the robe was a clue, but the hair was the clear indicator. The silver-white locks looked as if they had never known a pair of shears. It was away from the Mer’s face, done in several thick plaits of the Southern style that were intertwined with a leather lacing. The leather of the Order. He knew that well, and memories of his grand niece came to the surface, with her long golden hair using the lacing in very much the same way. ‘Kept it safe’, she would say. At the very least, he was a novitiate, as she was.

“I will not protest.” Smiled the youth. A fetching smile that somewhat helped ease the hardness of his features. He then turned to Lilandtar and bowed. “Congratulations, Master. It is an esteemed honor to lecture at the Office of Provincial Studies. When I can, I attend lectures there myself, they sometimes have standing room for students of the Order.”

“Do you have a name, my boy?” Asked Rynandor.

“Äelberon of Dusk. Will you require the full name, my Lord? My statement of ancestry?”

Rynandor dismissed the notion with a casual wave of his hand. “That will not be necessary. This is not a ceremony.”

“And yourselves, Masters?” He then added quickly, avoiding eye contact. “If I may ask?”

“Archmagister Rynandor and Master Lilandtar, of the Crystal Tower.” Rynandor answered. “I will spare you the other titles, as I can already hear Master Lilandtar’s stomach pangs. We should be taking our meal soon. And… we are Tower mages, if we speak, we ask for eye contact. We are noblemer, yes, but scholars and wise, above all.”

The youth’s eyes again met his, and Rynandor saw their fire. “Understood. I am truly honored, Masters. Before I left for the Temple, Kindsmer Vingalmo spoke of nothing else. He is excited to accompany you to Crystal-Like-Law. I am pleased for him; he deserves such honor.”

“You are friends with the young kinsmer, then?” Rynandor asked while the youth began carefully leading them through the crowd of people gathered at the Temple for evening service, picking a path that allowed the Tower mages the right of way..

“As much as my station will allow, Archmagister.”

Rynandor glanced at the Temple goers. “Do you not need to be here, boy? Attend service?”

“No, since Auri-El, in his grace, has seen to it that I not clean chamber pots on Sundas after all, I will do His service by hunting on the morrow. I was asked to.” A thoughtful nod. “We are not a rich order, our vow of poverty is a deep one, but the poor still need to eat.” His eyes found the back of the statue while they walked. “He understands. Besides, my bow misses me and I miss her…”

 _A huntsmer_ , Rynandor thought.

“So, we are not from Alinor, Youngling, is there a place you recommend?” Interrupted Lilandtar.

“Yes, but a short walk up the road. It is not crowded, not expensive, and the food is quite good.”

Once outside the Temple, after a brief walk, they entered a quiet tavern, very humble by Altmeri standards and Rynandor caught Lilandtar wrinkling his nose. _Confounded, what now, Lilandtar?! Verily, there is a pole up your arse!_ Of the two, Lilandtar was always the flamboyant one, proud of his great wealth, whereas Rynandor actually appreciated the simplicity of the tavern, with its clean lines and rustic quality. Despite the tavern’s roughness and the great affection in which the staff greeted the young Mer, causing the tips of his white ears to go bright red, their status as Crystal Tower mages was immediately noted and they were given with a private room to consume their meal. Food was quickly served, and the trio settled down to eat. Roast duck with assorted vegetables and rice boiled in seawater. It smelled and looked delicious and for the first time, Rynandor noticed his own hunger. While Lilandtar noisily drank wine and ate their roast duck, Rynandor asked the youth, letting the wrinkles around his eyes crinkle. “So, boy, how are you going to spend the money you earned today?”

“Ah that, Archmagister.” The youth set his fork down and seemed shy to Rynandor for a moment. “It is already spent. That is why I left so quickly when you were speaking to Vingalmo. I wanted to catch the couriers before they left for the day. A portion of it was sent with one to Dusk, for my parents. The rest? Well, it pays for services at the Temple for those who cannot afford it.”

“Did you keep any for yourself?”

“No, Archmagister. My bow, blade, and magicks provide all I need.”

Rynandor could feel Lilandtar’s eyes roll, but the lad seemed sincere, albeit a country Mer. “So, you are a priest?” He continued with his questions. “I have a grand niece who is also a member of the Order. A novitiate. Still studying. She often intertwines the lacing in her plaits. ‘Keeps it safe’, she says.”

“I understand her. I am the same way with my leather.” The boy answered with a nod – _dammit, he’s not a boy, he’s a at least forty, though hard to say due to the hardened features, maybe pushing fifity._ “But no, Master, I am not worthy yet. Perhaps more years of study and I will be able to make my first attempt at the Chantry to take my Vows. It is a long process.” 

“Then why do you train at the Training Center? Surely that would hold you back from your studies?”

“It does take time from my religious studies, Archmagister, but my patron held it to be necessary. He would often say that for one to truly serve, it must be with body, soul, heart, _and_ mind. None of these can be weak, especially when the true tests come.”

“And who is a patron that would demand so much from someone so young.”

“High Priest Kahlailas of Dusk, the Curate, Archmagister.”

The youth had both mages attention now, Lilandtar’s apple green eyes widening and then narrowing. “The Vestige himself?”

“The same, Master Lilandtar.”

Rynandor felt Lilandtar’s elbow nudge his ribs. “See, never underestimate.” Lilandtar then focused on the youth. “Are you related to him, Steel Plate? You don’t mind, I call you that, do you?”

Something hard flashed in the lad’s eyes before he responded with a gracious smile. “Not at all, Master Lilandtar. It is what they call me at the Training Center on account of my armor. Sort of stuck.” 

It was an insult, but the boy had chosen to shrug it off.

“I know he founded the city of Dusk some time back in the second era, after the Planemeld, I believe, if I am not mistaken. Used to be an old Keep.”

“Distantly, on my lenya’s side. _Very_ distantly. And yes, he is the father of Dusk. And a noble city it is, full of our traditions and a certain beauty. The draping wisteria at the docks, the old church with its wooden spires and arched roof, the library, the Market Square and boardwalks,” his eyes grew fond and Rynandor saw the smile broaden enough to show some teeth, “best roasted pine nuts in all of Summerset and the best fish...” The expression grew thoughtful again, almost wistful. “No, not crystalline grand, like Alinor is, but she is my city by the sea. My home. My family has been there since the beginning really; fishermer, carpenters, soldiers…”

 _Well, that was almost poetically phrased_ , thought Rynandor. _Ey, their echelon, however, is extremely low, only barely above slaves and goblin workers._ It was a cloud of disappointment that hung over his otherwise intriguing meeting with this dishwashing, bet-making Dusken, who was proving rather charming. _That he is even attending lectures at the Offices of Provincial studies is a huge achievement, Old Mer._ Curate Kahlailas was breaking many rules to sponsor this boy.

“The Vestige is the only mage that I know of in my family, going back many, many years, all the way to their start in Sunhold. We were always of the South, save those who were not.” The youth continued.

“Are you mixed, boy?” Lilandtar asked.

 _Of course, it comes up_ , thought Rynandor. Lilandtar was asking the questions Rynandor did not dare to. Being correct in procedure, while Rynandor only felt like defying it.

“Aye, I am mixed, my Lord. Ayleid on my ata’s side, Falmeri on my lenya’s. But that was long, long ago and while the colors remain, we are Altmeri through and through. After all, they are just colors, like your hair, am I right, Master Lilandtar?” 

It was an astute observation and both mages acknowledged the show of intelligence with sidelong glances at each other. Lilandtar had Breton stock in his family, the dominance of both black and red hair among House Larethian was proof of it. 

“You make a fair point.” The Magister admitted.

“My ata is a retired soldier, now a fishermer, and my lenya[,](https://tamrielvault.com/#Chapter1Notes) who served with my father, is now a blacksmith. When they saw that my eyes and arms served the bow, they longed for me to train at Vulkhel Guard like they had before me. But though our lives are rich in many ways, we lack wealth. They could not afford to send me. I was needed at home, to fish, and to help my lenya at the forge. I even left school to do so, knowing my place was with them and not in a classroom.” The youth looked away and shrugged. “Did not care for it much anyway. Besides, is it not our tradition to follow in the paths of our ancestors. Is that not right, Masters?" Rynandor nodded and the youth continued. "When I was seventeen, however, my parents were part of a force that saved Dusk's Temple of Auri-El from a vampire attack.”

“Ah, I remember that incident. The bards sang of it all the way to Cloudrest.” Recalled Lilandtar.

“Being very stupid and afraid for them, I followed, with naught but my old hunting bow. It did nothing and they were hurting her.” Both mages straightened in their chairs. “My first spell left my hands, to save her. It died, smelling horrible, like decay.” He shuddered, the nose wrinkled, and he swallowed as if he could still smell the odor. “I then threw up, the second helping of fish during dinner not the best idea that day. But I couldn't help it, my lenya makes a really good fish.” 

And there it was, the underestimated. Rynandor did not even need to ask what spell it was. The description gave it away. The Fire of Magnus. The Holy Magicks, mused Rynandor, stroking his beard in his mage’s silence. There was only one path for this young Mer and it was set the moment that spell left his hand. Old Kahlailas had come to him. The Order must have come to him and... The Thalmor. Curious, as always. The Holy Magicks always inspired such curiosity. The Elves that could wield them had a connection to Aetherius, to Nirn, that few possessed. It was something to be admired, and envied.

"The High Priest never forgot my parents’ service. The spell could also not be ignored. What it meant. The changes it would bring. He offered to sponsor my time in Alinor instead of Vulkhel Guard, in exchange for serving Dusk's Temple as an apprentice healer, to learn their craft. To become the second mage in my family and its second priest."

"Were you forced on that path, boy?"

The young Mer seemed confused for a second as if unable to comprehend what Rynandor was implying. He shook his head, furrowing his brow. 

"No, Master. I strongly felt the call to serve. He gave me such a great gift. My lenya lives by that gift. I became a novitiate without hesitation, receiving my leather and my calian at seventeen. Made a puzzle box to keep it n’ everything, and she gave me the cloth it’s nestled in.” A bit of the Dusken accent was now surfacing in his excitement and Rynandor could not help the smile. Boy was as sincere as they came, perhaps not extremely bright, but there was definitely a charm to his simple directness. “She was spared by His grace and I am indebted to Him. Humbled that they let me practice the art, despite my lowly station and my lack of proper schoolin'.”

“The Vestige has his influence and you are correct; one cannot ignore _that_ particular spell.” Lilandtar pointed out. “But, do you know other spells or was the sun magic just a one-trick wonder? Can you cast a good fireball?”

“No, I cannot, Master.”

“Lightning, frost, summons, bound weapons, manipulate the mind, anything useful in a fight?”

“Lilandtar!”

The tower mage shook his head and his green eyes narrowed, adjusting the fit on his deep purple, embroidered robes the way he does when he is getting ready to argue. Rynandor answered with his own preening and stiffening, while the youth looked on, a resigned expression on his face. It was probably not the first time he had inspired debate.

“No, Rynandor. One spell does not make for what you are considering asking Steel Plate here. Now there is room for a legitimate healer. I can see that. Not everyone needs to throw fireballs or summon atronachs.” Lilandtar turned to the youth, giving him a stern once over. “I can forgive the station and his lack of education. I can even forgive the crude, real weapons he’s forced to use because he cannot summon a good Daedric blade or bow to his side, but no, not on one spell alone. I do not care what it is. I do not care if the very rays of Magnus spew from his arsehole, one spell is not enough, Archmagister. Vingalmo is well-rounded, a noble, the right Mer for what we are asking. I need more from this one. What else can you do, Steel Plate, save sharpen blades, wash dishes, and sit on smaller elves when they give you an opening?”

Rynandor saw the youth’s eyes snap and his nostrils flared a tiny bit, betraying a potential willfulness that was probably going to land him in trouble, though the face remained composed. Then he rose to his full height, making both magisters tense in their chairs. Violence was not expected. The magical energy intensified around the young Mer’s left hand and there it manifested. A golden energy like the purest sunshine. The energy lengthened and narrowed, until it took the form of a shining javelin. 

It was a spell that Rynandor had not seen much of since the second era. The Aedric spear. The holy Mer’s answer to conjured weapons. Light used to battle darkness, developed in a time where Daedric princes openly endeavored to merge the planes of existence. Then the right hand gathered the magical energy, absorbing the streams that now visibly surged within the room. And for a moment, Rynandor felt the nagging ache in his shoulder from sleeping in a bad position the night before, the chronic rheumatism in his knee, the pressure upon his head from too much drink suddenly disappearing. Soothed. Gone. Like that, with little effort. The boy knew exactly where his ailments were, he could feel the cartilage rebuilding in his knee, the buildup of growth at the minutest of levels. Not just a soothing balm, but an actual repair. His eyes found Lilandtar, who was breathing heavily, calling his own magical energy. 

“Lilantar, what are you doing?” Rynandor gasped, beginning to panic. 

“Testing.” He raised an eyebrow and before Rynandor could stop him, a violent stream of lightning left his hand.

“Lilandtar!” 

The golden energy left Rynandor as quickly as it came, leaving him cold, and before he could react, the young Mer manifested a large ward. _At least he’ll block the spell or part of it_ , Rynandor thought. But the ward did not only block the spell. Instead, the ward seemed to funnel the stream of lightning like a whirlwind, turning it inside out. It then sucked the stream from Lilandtar, the old Mer’s body rocking from the force. Rynandor felt the transfer of magical energy and Lilandtar cried out at the shock of magicka being stolen from him. 

Rynandor stood up. “That’s enough!” 

At his words, the spear immediately dissipated and the boy sank to his chair, a whispered curse escaping his lips, his brow sweating profusely from his efforts. Lilandtar was sweating too, but true to his nature, the eccentric Magister burst out laughing, refilled his wine glass and took his seat with an impish grin. 

“That was fun.” 

Rynandor only glared at him, feeling his jaw fall to the floor. Lilandtar, as usual, waved his hand in dismissal. 

A knock on the door made everyone freeze in the room. “Ronnie? Is everything alright? We saw the lights? Magisters?” 

The young Mer’s face blushed bright crimson and his own jaw dropped at the mention of what Rynandor assumed was a familial name. _So, Ronnie, eh? Unlucky bastard, what a silly name, no wonder you are the shade of a tomato_.

“We are fine.” Rynandor called towards the door. “Nothing to concern yourselves with. _Ronnie..._ ” Rynandor couldn’t help himself and allowed a smile to cross his features while the lad verily squirmed in his chair and made a face, his face going even redder.. “Is fine. Just a small--”

“Test.” Lilandtar finished, still grinning, his eyes on the boy.

The young Mer seemed to shrink even more, despite his huge size, bending his head. “I am sorry, Magister. I--”

“Oh shut up, boy!” Lilandtar rolled his eyes in amusement. He then slammed his palm on the table and shuddered. “Damn! That was GOOD!” He pointed a finger at the young Mer. “No, do not be sorry. Never be sorry for those kind of magicks! You are not in trouble. No, definitely not. I needed to know and by Xarxes’ smooth arse cheeks, you bloody showed me.” He sighed in pleasure and took a long gulp of wine. “Have not had magic stolen from me in a good while. It’s a sly thief you’ve got here, Rynandor. We underestimated him. He knows the old stuff." 

“It seems so.” Rynandor replied as he finally took his seat. “What do you think?”

Lilandtar relaxed further into his chair, sipped more wine and scrutinized the young Altmer. “I can accept him.” The old Mer began his assessment. “But he is rough. Raw. They, on the other hand, will not so readily accept. His station is something you will need to think on, old friend. The leap from low to high is almost never welcomed. If you are prepared for that, Archmagister, then I will support whatever you decide. I think old Kahlailas taught him himself. Didn’t think the old Mer took pupils.” Lilandtar focused his attention on the boy. “Is it true? Were you taught by Kahlailas himself?” 

“Yes. For almost twenty years, he taught me, a nothing from the docks.”

“What else did the Curate teach you?”

“The full spectrum of combat, holy magicks, healing, anatomy, physiology, the history of our people and Tamriel, and the many, many rites of our faith.”

“Did you take to this quickly?” Lilandtar continued. He wanted to know the learning rate, Rynandor garnered. 

“Yes and No.” The young Mer shook his head. “The reading I loved, loved learning all those new things.” His eyes lit up. "How the world works, the body…”

“I thought you did not like school.” Rynandor pointed out.

“Aye, I do not. But learning is not school, Archmagister.” 

“And what was the ‘no’ for?” Lilandtar pressed. 

“The bloody spells, pardon my growing crassness, Magister.” He cleared his throat. “I will endeavor to speak at a better station.” 

“Pardoned.” Chuckled Lilandtar.

“I did not have the benefit of casting since I was a child, not like you or the Archmagister. But I managed. When he judged me ready, he sent me to Alinor to further train and hone my skills, leaving Dusk, all that I ever knew. During the day, I train at the Center. In the afternoon, I devote myself to the Temple, wash dishes, chop wood, forge steel, weed the garden, hunt, heal, whatever they bloody well need.” He groaned. “Sorry, I keep cursing, it’s been a long da--It _has_ been a long day. Weekends, I hunt or fish for them or attend service in His praise, thanking him every damn day for this opportunity. The opportunity to be better. On my Path to Alaxon.” He shook his head and looked away. “But I have much to learn still. I feel like a damned brisket sometimes, I am taking so long to cook.” 

Lilandtar seemed somewhat satisfied with the youth’s answer, “A good brisket is well worth the wait and it is a smart Mer, Steel Plate, that can admit when he has more to learn. Aye, you do, infinitely more. But, it seems the Vestige did not waste his time with you, A Nothing from the Docks.” A quirky chuckle escaped Lilandtar’s lips and the green eyes glittered with renewed mischief. “Ha, that sounds faintly Saxhleel, doesn’t it, Rynandor? Nothing from the Docks.” He repeated, pleased with himself. “Should call you that, but it is an extremely long name to say, as if I do not say enough long names already in my line of work, so Steel Plate it will remain.” The Magister turned to Rynandor. “Am I done?”

“Yes, friend, you are done.” 

Lilandtar dove right back into his meal, serving himself another helping of roast duck, more vegetables and rice. “Oghma’s tits, good, because I am still hungry. Oh, and I want dessert. Do they have orange cakes here? I’d fancy some orange cakes and some brandy to wash them down.” He waved his hand at the Dusken. “Well, go and fetch it, Steel Plate. I haven’t got all night.” 

_Social caste is never forgotten._

When the boy returned from ordering their additional food, there was an awkward silence as the trio continued their meal, giving time for Rynandor to think. Second era magicks were taught. The Vestige was not known to take individual pupils, he only supervised the Order from his seat in Dusk. A Curate of the Order, though originally a Knight-Paladin, rising through the ranks of the Order through combat just as much as through his great piety and faith. That he took a marked interest in the youth, meant there was an untapped potential. The magical energy did not lie to the Tower mages dining with the young Elf. It was just a matter of cultivating it further. No, nothing so mundane as the elements or summoning. Aedric spears and magicka absorption. Could the boy enhance attributes? Free souls? Capture souls? Banish them? Other feats? The Old Ways... Rynandor needed to know, know what the Vestige had passed on to the boy. And why he chose to even pass his knowledge on.

Rynandor was lost in thought when Äelberon spoke.

“May I ask a question, Archmagister?”

“Of course, Äelberon. I'm sorry, youngling. My mind was elsewhere.” Rynandor replied.

The youngling looked right at Rynandor. _Aye,_ Rynandor thought to himself, _I like this young one. The eyes are keen, no pretense behind them_. “Why does Archmagister Rynandor the Bold dine with me tonight?”

“Why do you think, youngling?” Rynandor answered with another question, not hiding his amusement.

Äelberon nodded slightly and there was the tiniest flash of arrogance in the youth’s eyes. _So, there IS pride there_ , Rynandor smiled. _Good, pride is good, youngling. You will soar with the very eagles if you couple that with humility to Auri-El and a willingness to learn._

 _You may even overcome your caste._

The Youth smiled a full Dusken smile, with teeth and everything. “Because today I became 1000 talons richer and tha young kinsmer, for once, has ta clean up me shit.”

 _Or maybe not._

“That you did, boy.” Rynandor nodded. 

“Here here,” Lilandtar raised his glass to the young Mer. “Always fun to watch someone clean shit. But believe me, Steel Plate, your days of cleaning shit are far from over.” 

“I know.” Steel Plate agreed.

“I hope you do.” Lilandtar countered as he sipped his wine, his seriousness returning. “Support does not mean approval, Archmagister.”

“I know, old friend, I know.” 

A grunt from Lilandtar and it was Rynandor’s turn to relax into his chair, stroking his long, blond, beard as he favored his wine. _I am going to ignore your disapproval, Lilandtar. I am going to make something of this lad. Take a Southern nothing from the Docks and finish what the Vestige surely must have started. And I don’t care if the old matrons choke on their hookas when they find out._

“And do you accept the challenge, Äelberon of Dusk ?”Asked Rynandor.

The eyes blazed again with a latent excitement. Like a fledgling eagle looking down upon the cliffs, eager to test his wings and take its first real flight, to be carried to the sky by the winds. “Yes, Master Rynandor, Archmagister of Crystal-Like-Law.” Replied Äelberon, looking him straight in the eye. “I will accept your challenge and serve you at the Tower.”


	2. The Cart Ride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter has a depiction of violence against an animal and the protagonist is brutally flogged. Nothing is overtly graphic, but it's there. Reader discretion is advised.

**_12th of Sun’s Dusk, 4E 201; Falkreath Hold, Skyrim, near Helgen_ **

“Your honor will be your undoing...”

He remembered Rynandor’s words of warning in their final somber moments together. Hushed, emotional whispers before Rynandor boarded a ship bound for Anvil, joining the ranks of Aprax that would never again feel Summerset’s golden sands upon their feet.

 _He died, and so will you._ _But if Honor is what kills me, then so be it_ , Äelberon thought while he gazed upon the pine tree-lined road, interspersed with scatterings of snowberries and blue mountain flowers. The sun had barely peaked above the horizon. _At least I still have Honor._

 _And Faith, though neither are serving you well right now_ , he noted with a wry smile. Still, despite the odds, the years of wandering, he had sought the old demon out, knowing full-well the outcome. _You only ever bested the Mer once in combat, Old Mer_. That one fateful moment where his whole future was unlocked before him, a spar between two friends on a warm Spring day, the deal sealed between roast duck and orange cakes…. His stomach growled, the sharp pangs letting him know how much it was indeed missing orange cakes. Any sweets, any food for that matter. _How long have you gone without food? At least five days?_

But he did the right thing for both the Imperial soldiers escorting them, and the Stormcloaks in the cart with him, though he was not certain they would live long enough to enjoy the benefits of the dark fate he had helped them escape from. _Who are you kidding, Sovngarde, to a Nord, is a fantastic place, an endless party with more food and drink than you can imagine. Certainly, beats Coldharbour. You did the Nords a big favor, Old Mer._

All of the prisoners had expected a return to Cyrodiil, but with General Tullius' sudden appearance two days ago, the party turned unexpectedly again towards Skyrim, going West away from Darkwater. There would be no trial, just the sentence.

As dire as his predicament was, Äelberon still had enough life in him to appreciate the beauty of the land. It was lovely. _Typical Altmer with your bloody love of plants. The landscape ‘twould make for a fine painting._

Dense forests and steep, fern-covered ravines gave way to snow-covered peaks lined with pine trees when they made the turn toward the mountains in the South. Skyrim was a wild country, very different from the rolling hills of Cyrodiil and vastly different from Summerset. The Northern breeze was a sharp one, biting hard, but a part of him really liked the snap of it. The cart jostled and groaned on the uneven road, aggravating his injuries, and every once in a while, a stray snowflake fell. Äelberon sighed as he continued to stare down the path.

_No regrets._

_Nah, that is not true, lying Old Mer. You have several. Might as well bring them to light and reflect on them, you do not have much time to make your peace._

Of the past. The Stormwatch family signet ring that was no longer on the little finger of his left hand. What it would mean for his dearest sister of their Order when it was returned to her grand house back in Alinor. That he was finally dead. The Mer she had tried to protect for so long. _Gah, better for her that you are dead. They will not bother her anymore._

And the future. He could not help the smile that found his worn features when he thought of her, gangly like a long-legged filly, with copper hair and a pair of dancing blue eyes that he knew all too well. She was brought by her noble mother, the Countess of Bruma, to the Tap n’ Tack for “dancing” lessons. His final pupil, his final legacy. A ruffian of a girl. Ah, young Lisette, stubborn and ugly, at least by Cyrodiil standards. Another like him who could not just sit and be like everyone else. Wanted to know the way of the sword instead of the ways of needle and thread, batting eyelashes, and good manners that were expected of her. And because he was always indulgent to those who were intrepid enough to nudge open the door into his heart by even a wee crack, he verily taught the lass how to dance, remembering their final spar in the barn of the Tap ‘n Tack. Just like how he had taught her father before her…

 _And you would be coming back to Lisette, to Bumph, to Decimus, to all you left behind, your mission successful, had it not been for the piece of shit sitting kitty corner to you_. Äelberon gave a dark-haired Nord a glare that would make a bear piss. _I had him, you shit. I had the creature within my blade stroke, and you took it away._ The Human had ruined everything. The plan. Äelberon’s vengeance. The Nord looked away, squirming to make himself look smaller in the wagon, but it still gave the old Mer no satisfaction.

_Bah, you would not have come back, you would have died, but the Nord took even the flimsy chance of survival from you._

“Hey, you. You’re finally awake…” A voice interrupted Äelberon’s fuming.

Äelberon shifted his gaze from the road to Ralof, a young Nord, also with his hands bound. His face and blond hair were caked with dust and dried blood, but his bright, blue eyes were clear and focused. “Was never asleep.” He grumbled.

Ralof gave the other Nord a side glance and grunted. “Still can’t believe you followed _that_ across the border. Not worth the trouble in my eyes.”

“He was not my original target.” Äelberon’s eyes found the Nord again. _Aye, I am going to make ya piss yer paints, ya shit. For Reman._

“The Justiciar was.” Ralof observed.

Äelberon tilted his head to the side at the keen observation, narrowing his eyes. “You saw a lot from your campfire, human.”

“Still, as much as I hate the Thalmor. Wasn’t worth walking into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there.”

"Damn you, Stormcloaks.” Interrupted the thief angrily. “Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen his horse and been halfway to Hammerfell. You there. You and me - we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

“Do not ever put yourself with me, _thief_!” He snarled at the Nord, making him start and shrink further into the cart’s corner. “That horse had a name and you got him killed.” His contemplative mood was now destroyed, and he could feel the anger simmering inside him, the frustration of endless failure, the grief for Reman. Was not his best animal, not by a longshot, but he was still a good boy, always did his best.

The Stormcloak raised his eyebrows. “I never knew it was _your_ horse?”

“Aye, he was. Reman. My sweet dapple grey. And you killed him!” He wanted to lunge at the thief, but he was too far and he released a growl that spoke volumes on what his bound body wanted to do to the Nord.

Ulfric Stormcloak, his noble clothes filthy from travel, suddenly leaned back against his seat in the carriage and kicked the dark thief hard in the shin, making him cry out.

“Thank you.” Äelberon managed. “If I could reach him, he would have gotten worse from me.”

The Jarl nodded and grunted something intelligible through his gag, but Äelberon understood the intent.

“What’s going on back there?“

“Nothing!” Ralof barked. “Just stretching our legs.”

“You’ll be stretching them soon enough.” The guard responded.

“How ominous.” Äelberon rolled his eyes.

_That was stupid, Old Mer. Old Marys really should not be smart arses around humans, not in Nord country, and especially not when they are bound and about to probably be executed._

The guard quickly rose from his place and took out his anger over Äelberon’s show of insolence with his fists. It was not his first beating, though it would probably be his last. True to himself, he took it like a Mer proper and when the guard was finished, he was pushed back into his seat in the cart, releasing a torrent of pain along his back that made him close his eyes as the blood left his face. 

“That’ll teach ya, Knife Ears.” The guard resumed his seat next to the driver.

Hearing that insult again almost made him laugh. 

A concerned grunt from Ulfric prompted Ralof to nudge his shoulder with his bound hands. “You alright? You match the snow.”

Äelberon’s eyes opened slowly and he gave a smirk for show, but he was still seeing the very Magna ge from the pain. “Not my first beating, son. You know that.” he gasped. 

He took a deep breath and assessed the latest injuries, focusing his mind and magicks as best he could considering his condition. Another cracked rib, and the right eye was beginning to swell. Otherwise, the injuries this time were superficial. That particular Nord hit like a wee lass. 

Currently, it was his back that was still giving him the most problems. The push back to his seat reopened several lashes, making more blood soak through his roughspun tunic and down into his trousers. Several of the lashes were now infected, the skin around them puffy and hot, and he could smell the forming puss. He had lost a lot of blood. The blood and infection were not so easy to fix. He was working on it, but it took time and magical energy to rebuild his body and blood from the flogging he had endured since his capture. The lack of food and sleep did not help his recovery.

Äelberon turned to his right and nodded at Ulfric Stormcloak. “I am alright, friend.” A reassuring smile “You know I can take it. He hit no better than a wee Bosmer. Barely a tickle.”

The Jarl nodded, not looking much better than he did.

Ralof shook his head in disbelief. “I still cannot fathom how you two count each other as friends. A Nord and High Elf.”

“We seem to enjoy being miserable together.”

The gaggled Jarl’s shoulders shook a bit with resigned laughter. _Aye!_ _We know what’s waiting for us at Helgen._

The news of High King Torygg’s death had hit Bruma like a warhammer. It was a city whose Nord population was a reflection of Skyrim’s current state. Divided. Some applauded the death, calling Stormcloak a hero, others called him a traitor, for challenging a mere boy, ‘shouting him to pieces’ as they claimed. It explained the gag, Stormcloak was what Nords call a Tongue, apparently an old way of magic, from Äelberon’s understanding. He did some reading on Nord ways before he left, but was far more focused on killing the vampire. 

They exaggerated, as Nords typically do. Torygg was not really a boy, young, but not a boy. Boys do not have beards. However, his failure and death spoke volumes on the current state of the diluded Direnni line in Skyrim. How low they had fallen, from what had been such a mighty family in the day. A real Direnni would have been more than a match for a Stormcloak, Tongue or not. But it was strange in Nord culture, as martial a society as they claimed to be, that they could produce both a High King Torygg and an Ulfric Stormcloak, and then willingly elect the former to be king. It left Äelberon scratching his head, showing a lack of common sense more typically reserved for a flighty Breton court or a room full of Altmeri matrons passing the hooka. It set them up for their current state and that smelled like rotten fish in a barrel to Äelberon. _Rotten black and gold fish sporting fine Altmeri cologne_ , he frowned, knowing well the machinations of his own people.

Äelberon and Ulfric had recognized each other from their shared time as “honored guests” of now First Emissary Elenwen during the Great War. Before the sack of the Imperial City and later Red Ring. She was their interrogator and as with all Thalmor interrogators, she had loved her job.

He remembered his time under Elenwen’s “gentle” care, the contraptions, the needles. Ulfric had broken under her torture. Understandable. The Thalmor were among the most dedicated at extracting information and manipulation in all Tamriel. Even a Nord noble, educated, and proven in battle, did not stand a chance. They could make anyone believe anything, especially after the pain they put Ulfric through. Ulfric sincerely believed that he had overheard information crucial to his cause in the Great War. What they had not banked on was that after the Thalmor set the stage for Ulfric's "escape" from the compound, Äelberon managed to convince the Nord to free him too, and the two then did some damage. Elenwen was grossly humiliated. It was a hollow revenge, considering the permanent damage she did to him, what the damage had ultimately cost him, but at that point, after seventy-six years on the run and on his path towards vengeance, he would even take hollow revenge when it came his way.

_Seventy-six years..._

_Gods, it is now what_ , he thought, his eyes again turning to the road, his silver brows furrowing in concentration. Trying to remember these things would help him forget his injuries. _Seventy-six_ , he mused, _add to that Red Ring, Hammerfell, Dec, Lisette… Ah shit, Dec. You have not seen the boy in two years. He is in Skyrim. Probably already hibernating for the winter in that giant fort of his in the Rift, the big Imperial princess, with not a care in the world, a bottle of Surilie’s in each arm. Or a woman, or two. As it should be._ Äelberon felt renewed grief threaten to tighten his chest and he took a deep breath to stop it from surfacing. _That_ was another regret. It was worse than the others. Worse because the Imperial Decimus Merotim, for all his crassness and vice, for all his roughness, of all those he had known since Apraxis, it was _he_ who had managed to replace something of what Äelberon had he had lost since his exile. Had managed to diminish a bit of the sorrow. He hoped that Decimus would never learn his fate. Because the boy would lose it, kill every Old Mary in sight, and get himself into trouble or worse and Aelberon did not want that fate for the boy. _Auri-El’s bow, he is over forty-five now, not a boy, not for a long time. You are acting like ol’ ‘Nandor now, thinking everyone a child—_ his eyes really started to sting _—Think of something else, quickly, Old Mer. The total years. So, one-hundred and three years._ One hundred and three years of the Thalmor searching for someone who was already dead, already lost. Apraxic in the worst sense of the word. 

And humans think Orcs have the worst grudges. No, hands down, it was the Altmer. No race holds a grudge, either personally or as a collective race, like the Altmer do. Since the very Dawn Era. Himself included, he allowed himself a weak smirk, riding another wave of pain on his back.

He had read about his own death _. A funny thing to read about your own death when your heart still beats_. The Thalmor-endorsed “official” and “truthful” account of the history of the Summerset Isles – _whoops! Alinor, Old Mer, it is Alinor_ – which, of course, enjoyed wide publication throughout all Tamriel. According to _that_ account, he died sometime during the Void Nights, a victim of a vampire raid at his home city of Dusk. Other books said different things. Some tragic. Some plain silly, involving brothels and whatnot. But he was definitely dead. At least to his People. The Thalmor, another group entirely, knew the truth, and still hunted him, because it would be bad for them if dead legends suddenly lived.

So, deep down, he knew that the events of the last four days ago that resulted in this cart ride, was no Imperial ambush. This was a Thalmor ambush with Imperial trappings. The Stormcloaks were not the true prize in the wagon.

The last living Knight of the Crystal Tower was. 

At least to the Thalmor.

It was four days ago when he was finally captured, a little after the Imperial ambush. He gave Vingalmo credit, he had been outsmarted by that damn vampire. The prey knew the predator as well as the predator knew the prey. Knew his weaknesses so very well. So many years of near misses, escapes, disappointments... He expected no less from Vingalmo. He had wanted to confront Vingalmo directly with his vampirism; show the Thalmor what their “favorite son” truly was. He was told by numerous vampire hunters to simply shoot him in the back with a silver arrow and be done with it. One head shot would have been enough, his skill with the bow would have seen to that. _Do it and go on living._ It is what Decimus had told him to do, as well as Bumph, Nelecar, Isran, Falion, Kematu… 

Even young Lisette, during his last night at Bruma, knocked on his door and came quietly to his room at the Tap 'n Tack, understanding why he needed to go, but still begging him to make a quick end of it while she held him tightly. He hugged her back, kissed the top of her copper head and told her it would be alright and that she needed to keep practicing her swordplay, like a good daughter of the Count. He left at dawn without another word, left the friends he knew in Bruma and beyond, the life he had attempted to rebuild…

 _But there will never be a new life for you, while they still cry from their graves, and you know it. A hundred and three years without peace. Better to die, taking Vingalmo with you._ Besides, Äelberon did not want to do it that way, sneaking, cheating, like an assassin in the shadows. He wanted hand to hand combat, like their spars of old, knowing full well the odds were stacked high against him. On the other hand, Vingalmo was alone and Äelberon seized the opportunity. It was stupid and he made a poor judgment call, but his emotions were high and Vingalmo had so much to answer for.

He had turned from his pursuit of the thief in the woods when he noticed the Justiciar by himself in a clearing. Ignoring the instinct that had served his survival for so long, Äelberon walked towards him, his head held high, his face painted white in a bold pattern, his calling card when he went into battle in Auri-El's name. His silver plate armor glistening in the sun’s waning rays. Made by his mother, the eagle’s etchings still fresh. His little one, Koor, made to follow, but Äelberon bade him stay at the forest’s edge. 

The smile on Vingalmo’s face when he approached was vile. Golden and perfect to everyone else. Blanched to Äelberon, save the dull orange orbs that were his eyes.

“Ah dear, old Ronnie, it’s been years.” He had said sarcastically, reclining on a tree stump, looking up at the old, grizzled Mer he had been hunting for so many years. “What brings you to Skyrim?”

_Äelberon glowered, his blood boiling with fresh rage. Vingalmo dared use that name!_

He remembered snarling a “you.”

Äelberon then drew his weapon, a silver blade well-proven against vampires, but stopped dead when the sun disappeared into the horizon. It was not the sun, he had vanquished many vampires in complete darkness before, it was what caught his eye beyond where Vingalmo sat.

There was a sudden commotion.

One was not enough for the thief. He had to be greedy.

“Horse thief!”

“Grab him!”

The thief, riding Reman, suddenly barreled into the clearing, another horse followed by leather lead. Imperial soldiers stormed through in pursuit. An archer with a crossbow took aim and Äelberon held his breath, the aim was too low, too low to hit the thief. 

Reman screamed.

The thief fell with the horse and Äelberon’s stomach turned when equine bones broke. The thief rolled out from under Reman just in time, dazed, but alive. 

He heard his own hoarse cry, the shock of unexpected loss. But he faced Vingalmo again. One swing was all it would take, and he lifted his sword to strike.

It was then that he noticed the campfires behind the vampire’s provoking grin. Hidden from him in the trees until they glowed in the waning light. 

“Look at all those people, Ronnie.” Vingalmo purred.

Gods, so many of them. Time seemed to stop for him and he thought about what he was about to do as the auroras began to dance in the sky. He gazed at the Thalmor and Imperial soldiers that had now begun to take notice of the two former friends as they inspected Reman in his death throes and made to arrest the thief groaning in the grass. The bound Stormcloak soldiers were also watching the growing crowd from just beyond the tree line.

 _How many would die to protect this monster_ , he had thought.

None knew what Vingalmo really was. To them, he was a Grand Justiciar, an Altmer of great importance to the Empire, an Altmer to be protected, lest the Aldmeri Dominion get wind of his death and shatter an already weary peace. And if Äelberon lost, how many more would die so that Vingalmo could guard his secret? They were oblivious to the danger, to the power of the creature before him. Vingalmo was nearly unstoppable in that other, monstrous winged form, perfectly capable of killing everyone here to maintain his Illusions. No one deserved to die that way, be they Imperial, Stormcloak, or even Thalmor. No one deserved Coldharbour. This was the trap Vingalmo had sprung and it was indeed Äelberon’s honor that would be his undoing.

“Them or you. Decide.” The vampire whispered, his smile broadening. “You know what I am capable of, Ronnie. You’ve seen it yourself. I’ll kill them all, and then you last, and I will be blameless. You know it.”

Their dialogue played out in Äelberon’s mind as if it had just happened. The harsh cruelty that is Altmeri memory, especially his own. The vampire barely concealed his fangs, shrugging his slender shoulders incredulously. No, Äelberon would not sacrifice these people for revenge. He kept to his tenets too dearly. The vampire had him.

Äelberon had heard a faint rustle at the edge of the woods and turned his head just enough to see. His little boy. With eyes like the Summer skies. His Koor. He dropped his sword to distract the vampire and gazed at the pensive husky, while at the same time trying not to give the animal’s presence away. “Go.” He mouthed. _Before Vingalmo finds you and does to you what he did to your family._ Instinctually, the dog left, like a ghost, understanding. _Or… maybe he remembers more about that dark day than you think he does, Old Mer_.

He then fell to his knees and surrendered, further turning Vingalmo’s attention toward him. _Koor will live, ya shit and maybe, just maybe, the snowberry will tear off yer throat while ya sleep_.

That night, the Thalmor stripped him of his armor and weapons and had him bound to a tree with a sturdy thick trunk. The Stormcloaks were then brought to him and forced to sit down. Vingalmo himself appeared and at first, Aelberon thought the vampire was going to finally shear his priestly hair, the ultimate punishment one can enforce upon a Knight-Paladin of Auri-El, but no, the Justiciar took great care to move his long, thick plaits over his shoulder to expose his back.

“Later.” Vingalmo whispered almost seductively in his ear as he gently let go of the final plait, his gloved fingers lingering on the contour of the braid, before tracing the muscles of his shoulder and further down to his ribs. Äelberon instinctively recoiled, making the vampire chuckle. “Don’t like that, do you? You reek, Dusken, but the hair is still beautiful, soft, as thick as it ever was…” It was murmured in a way that made Aelberon’s stomach turn, made Aelberon think on Vingalmo’s wife and children back in Alinor. Did they even know the perverse thing Vingalmo had become? “Only part of you that ever was…” 

The expression on Vingalmo’s face was cold and the vampire faced the Stormcloak soldiers, giving them the smallest of smiles, before turning Aelberon around to face the tree as he drew his eight-pronged lash from his belt.

What was then done proved too much for human eyes and the Imperial Captain had to step in, stopping the Justiciar. Hurried words spoke of her soldiers’ growing discomfort and Vingalmo obliged, apologizing profusely, but reassuring that this was indeed a terrible enemy to the Empire and the further punishment was necessary in accordance with the rules of the Aldmeri Dominion. _Punishment indeed! The poor, poor tree!_ Äelberon was still spitting out little bits of bark from how hard he bit that tree to not cry out, putting everything into his powerful jaw muscles to not give Vingalmo the satisfaction of his pain. He bore the beating in complete silence, only moving from the momentum of each blow. It was a battle of wills and though Vingalmo had made him bleed, it was Äelberon’s victory. The Nords saw that, and from then on, he was treated with a measure of respect among the Stormcloak prisoners.

Äelberon’s eyes again scanned the path to what he guessed was Helgen, imagining Skyrim’s map in his brain. What was done, was done.

“Where are they taking us? The thief was now beginning to realize his predicament. _Good riddance to you for killing my Reman, may Auri-El forgive me for my continued anger._

“I don’t know where we’re going, but Sovngarde awaits.” Said Ralof, answering the thief’s question.

“I’m not ready to die!”

“Where are you from, thief?” Ralof asked.

“Rorikstead. I’m… I’m from ‘Rorikstead. Why does it matter where I’m from? Why do you care?”

“A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home.” Ralof explained.

“I don’t want to die.” The thief repeated, looking around the wagon for a way to escape.

Äelberon gave him another glare. “Should have thought of that before you took my horse.”

Ralog gave Äelberon a look. “Have a little care, friend, not everyone is as prepared. Thief or otherwise.”

Those words were answered by a bitter smirk. “Youngling, you know nothing about being prepared.”

“Hmph, well…” Ralof turned to Ulfric Stormcloak. “Told you there was an Altmer somewhere under all those muscles, my Jarl. Arrogant fuck.” Ulfric’s shoulders shook in laughter. “Still, you can take a beating like a Nord, so we won’t hold it against you. So, oh wise old one, where _do_ the Old Marys go when they die?”

“Not Sovngarde.”

“That’s obvious. They would nigh ruin the party up there.”

“Indeed.” Äelberon cocked an eyebrow, letting his finest Altmeri “snark” shine for all the Nords to see. “Cannot be sitting up in that golden hall with a nose in a book, now can we?” His expression turned cold, realizing that just maybe the Nords were smarter after all with their endless party in the heavens. “The dead are burned, becoming dust, and are put in tiny urns in dark stone tombs lit with yellow-orange crystals that are but a shallow semblance of Magnus’ glory. But only the best move on, only the worthy transcend. The rest, nothing, just dust…”

“Who are worthy?”

“The Praxic.”

“What does that mean?”

“The accepted.” Äelberon replied and the Nord fell silent, which is what Äelberon wanted, though he was conflicted by his own bitterness. It was not who he was, but he could not help it. He had been in terrible situations before, but none felt as final as this. Save their deaths at Vingalmo’s orders, the event that caused all of this in the first place.

The old Mer scanned the distance behind the cart, his eyes traveling past his fellow prisoners, seeing his homeland, its golden shores, its great fruit trees, and clinging wisteria, heavy with blooms. Seeing the golden flowers born from his Lenya’s ashes in her coastal tomb. Smelling their heady fragrance in his mind one last time, feeling the salt breeze upon his face. As if he had been there only yesterday… A flash of black and white suddenly moved out of the corner of his eye and the memories of his Homeland again became the snowy forests of Skyrim’s Jerral foothills. He blinked when he caught the twitch of a tail and his chest tightened anew.

His boy was following. Keeping up, despite the hardship. The display of devotion and hope moved the Elf greatly and he blinked away his despair. _If your boy is seeing this through to the end, then you will, with back straight, like the knight-paladin you are._ He turned to Ralof, finding the priest deep within himself. “But, if we have lived well, and are lucky, we go to Aetherius. Otherwise, we wait in the Dreamsleave until we are sent back to Mundus to try again.” Äelberon managed a half-smile, laced with his brand of sarcasm. “I am fairly certain; I will be sent back to Mundus. Too many sins from this old one, youngling.”

That made Ralof chuckle and Äelberon nodded. _Job well done, you old priest, ya still got it._ The cart hit a hard bump, making Äelberon see the Magna ge again, as they approached the gate of a small Imperial settlement. A soldier called out to the General, informing them that the Headsman was waiting. The thief then proceeded to pray to every bloody Divine, while Äelberon, Ralof, and Jarl Ulfric watched an Imperial in fine dress armor, General Tullius, ride his charger towards First Emissary Elenwen, who was also on horseback, flanked by her Thalmor guards. Vingalmo and his men had also broken from the envoy and rejoined the Emissary’s small company. Äelberon observed the General speaking with the two head Justiciar. Elenwen gestured with her head towards Äelberon’s carriage and Tullius looked back towards them, setting his jaw. Ulfric grunted and turned away angrily. Ralof instinctively tried to cross his arms over his chest in frustration, but the binds didn’t let him and he ended up pounding his fists upon his thighs. The horse thief gulped. Äelberon was sorely tempted to give the pair of Justiciars a big, fat juicy raspberry while staring at them cross-eyed, and he felt his tongue really want to escape his mouth, but the beating in the cart was enough for today. _Besides, show some bloody_ _dignity, old Mer,_ though he suspected ol’ Lilandtar would have been pleased with the gesture _._

Ralof muttered angrily, “Look at him. General Tullius, the Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn Elves.” His eyes found Äelberon. “Present company excluded.”

“I have called them ‘damn elves’ plenty of times in my day too, lad.”

The carts drove past the town's citizens who had paused their daily activities to watch the proceeding. It was not every day a Jarl of a major hold was being escorted to his death, nor was it every day so many High Elves were seen at Helgen, Äelberon imagined. His keen Altmer ears picked up bits of conversation along the way, mostly coming from a small home to his left. A Nord lad, perhaps ten or eleven winters, was sitting cross-legged on a wooden deck adjoining what Äelberon assumed was his home, his face wedged between the wood beams of the deck’s railing.

“Who are they, da? Where are they going?”

Äelberon saw a stout red-haired Nord put a hand on the lad’s shoulder, though he kept a wary eye on the procession of prisoners. “You need to go inside, little cub.” 

“Why? I want to watch the soldiers. They have prisoners…” Äelberon was briefly caught off guard when the boy’s eyes actually locked with his. The boy was curious, studying him. The lad then turned to his father. “Look at him. He’s all white, da. Like snow. Never seen one like that before. And look at his eyes!”

“Inside the house.” The Nord pulled up his son to a standing position. “Now.” Äelberon heard the muttered “demon” before the door to the house slammed shut as they drove past. _Well, it is not the first time you have been mistaken for a vampire or a demon._

The cart made an abrupt stop at Helgen’s far wall and Äelberon could sense the thief’s growing dread. He was going to run; all the signs were there. The last act of desperation when one is no longer rational in the face of death. He had seen soldiers cross that line plenty of times in his long life. The thief pleaded to Äelberon, now bloody forgetting everything that had transpired between them.

“You’ve got to tell them! We weren’t with them! This is a mistake!” He begged.

“Bloody Oblivion.” Äelberon scowled. “You took my horse!”

“Shor’s bones!” Ralof barked. “Face your end with some courage, thief. Taking a man’s horse is like taking his life. Face up to it like a proper Nord.” He glanced at Äelberon. “Besides, they beat that Old Mary worse than any of us. What makes you think they would listen to him?”

Äelberon was about to speak when they began the roll call for the prisoners. They were dragged roughly from the cart and forced upon their knees. Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak was called first, pulled up roughly and dragged towards the General, followed by Ralof, who hailed from the town of Riverwood. Äelberon imagined his mental map again. Ah, Northeast of Helgen, a small village.

Then they called the thief and as the guards approached the man, Äelberon was right; Lokir of Rorikstead, killer of his Reman, in an act of utter desperation, attempted the impossible...

_To flee._

He was struck down with a better aimed arrow before he even reached the gate, and no, Äelberon was not sorry. Justice had been served, at least for his poor Reman. Fitting that an arrow took him and that he too knew fear when he died. Reman had never been a brave animal. Dutiful and loving in his own way, but skittish and possessing a frail spirit to the point of being neurotic. His former master had been abusive, breaking the animal, and despite Aelberon’s gentle care, Reman never fully recovered mentally. The Nord fell close to where Koor was hiding, spooking the dog in the process. The husky responded by retreating again to the shadows to observe the proceedings, shifting positions nervously as he was prone to do when conflicted or agitated. Äelberon felt sorry for the damn animal. Hopefully, he would survive his master’s demise. Find the young boy maybe? _That could be a sound match_ , he thought as he was forced to a standing position by two Imperial guards. _Your turn._

“Wait.” Spoken by a young Imperial guard. Well, a Nord wearing Imperial armor. He appeared to be scanning the prisoner lists. _Aye, I won’t be on that list, son. My dossier’s much, much thicker than that wee little book you are holding there._ "You there. Step forward. Who are you?”

The Altmer straightened his shoulders, easily adding to his already impressive height, ignored the agony that was his back and stepped forward. _Alright, time to show these humans how a real Elf conducts himself in the face of death._ He squared his jaw in defiance and gave the First Emissary a sidelong glance when he spoke. “I am “Äelberon of Dusk, Knight Paladin and Priest of the Holy Order of Auri-El, Slayer of Bet, and a Hero of the Summerset Isles.” He lowered his head in a noble bow. 

Watching the old bitch and the vampire seethe on their horses was priceless because the younger Mer around them were suddenly doing serious double takes, their faces contorted with confusion and with some, recognition. _Aye, that is exactly who they are about to kill, younglings. The very Mer from your childhood storybooks. They dinna tell ya that, did they?_ Äelberon was enjoying every moment of it. _Aye, I am going to die with the truth on my lips, a fire in my heart and freer than the damn lot of you._

The Imperial guard looked questioningly at the Captain. “Captain. What should we do? He’s not on the list?”

For a moment, the Captain also looked confused while she checked the guard’s lists. She then gave a quick look to General Tullius, who then turned to Elenwen and Vingalmo, tall on their horses. Elenwen reached for a thick leather— _ah there it is, that fat old dossier, gonna show Tullius how I ate whole babies raw, worshipped all the Daedric princes while fucking goats, and practiced necromancy naked under a full moon, eh?_ They both seemed unemotional, cold, while Tullius skimmed through the dossier, especially to the humans, but Äelberon could see the discomfort. Altmer could see emotions that no human could understand. The complexity of putting a former friend to death because of their absolute lies. As rotten to the core as both were, he could still see it, the hesitancy, even after all they had done to each other, after all the years, there was a measure of guilt. _Do it, ya shits_ , he dared them with his eyes, his stance, nostrils flaring in defiance. _I am ready to die. I have been from the very beginning, ever since you took everything from me._

He was, and that was what poor Lisette ultimately did not understand. There was never any intention to return to Bruma. Like an old Orc seeking “Good Death”, he wanted to die and maybe take Vingalmo with him. Give himself and his family the peace they all sorely needed. The First Emissary caught his hard glance and then nodded to the General as he returned the book, who finally nodded to the Captain. Äelberon nodded and squared his shoulders, unbroken by the Thalmor. _It is done, good riddance. I am ready._

“Forget the list,” The General ordered. “He goes to the block.”

“Yes sir.” Nodded the Captain. “You heard him, soldier.”

“By your orders, Captain.” The soldier turned to Äelberon. “I am sorry, we will make sure your remains are returned to Summerset Isles.”

“No.” The First Emissary suddenly spoke, making the solider’s head turn. “The Apraxic do not _ever_ go back.”

“But the hair!” Äelberon heard Vingalmo hiss under his breath.

The Emissary’s face became pinched and she took a moment to think, her brow furrowing. She exchanged hurried words with Vingalmo that Äelberon could not make out. When they finished, their Altmeri demeanor had returned in full force and she faced General Tullius. “When he has been beheaded, keep the body and do not disturb it. High Justiciar Caemal and I will return after some pressing business that we must attend to. We trust that you will complete this simple task for us, General. As a gesture of good will between the Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion.”

Aelberon’s mouth dropped open, cursing his prior surge of pride. They were going to kill ones who recognized his name, or at the least do dark magicks upon them. Take memories from their minds, make them forget. No one would know and no one would care. He looked at the Emissary, shaking his head in revulsion. _What happened to you, Lennie?_

The General nodded. “I’ll carry out your sentence, but why keep the body?”

“There is a ceremony to be done for such a grievous criminal against Alinor.” She replied.

Ralof leaned towards him. “What are they going to do to you?”

“Castrate me and cut off my hair, preserve the pieces, and deliver them to the High Justiciar in Alinor personally.” Aelberon shrugged. “They are being merciful, usually that is done while you are still quite alive.” 

“Ysmir’s beard!” Ralof swore under his breath and the young Nord guard gave them a look. He had heard as well. “What the fuck did you do?” Ralof quickly asked.

Äelberon looked to the distance, seeing again his golden shores, the clear waters, his beloved city by the Sea and he managed a smile.

“Loved my Homeland.” 


	3. The Attack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains sustained violence and descriptions of gore. A child is placed in a dangerous situation.

“Is it finished?” Haming heard his ma ask from the cooking fire when his da walked in. His da looked pensive as he set his axe against their weathered dining table and took his seat.

“Eggs?” He asked, rubbing his face, like he was suddenly tired or something. He moved his tough, muscled arms out of the way just in time for Haming’s mother to slide a wooden trencher of still-bubbling fried eggs at his place. Nice and runny, just like the ones Haming was working on. His da smiled and sighed. “Thanks, Mattie, just what I needed.” Her name was Matlara, but all in Helgen called her Mattie for short, including da. In fact, da was the one who started it. It was only shorter by a syllable, but it was still shorter, so easier to say, Haming guessed.

“Is it finished?” Haming repeated, as curious as ever. That got a stern look from da and Haming noticed how similar he looked to Grand da then. Only with red hair, much younger, and far less ornery living in his Nordic features. But no one in Skyrim was as ornery as Froki Whetted-Blade, the huntsman of the Rift mountains, the legend who took down the old Guardian Bear all by himself, with nothing but a bow. Grand da had skin that was like tanned leather, it was so lined and seasoned from the wind and frost bite of his hard life. 'Kyne's kisses' he would say. He lived like a hawk high in the mountains, said it brought him closer to the goddess. 

His da reached for his tankard of fresh coffee, added a bit of cream and a small sprinkle of the good white sugar, took a sip, and then eyed him.

“They are still reading the Stormcloak’s crimes.” Da then dove into his eggs.

“ _Still_?” Ma looked up from her cooking, her grey eyes widening in surprise. She put her hands on her hips, the stirring spoon for tonight’s boar stew still in one hand. “Well, they are taking their sweet time, Torolf.” She groaned her displeasure while she again bent over the bubbling kettle. “I want them to just finish already and leave Helgen be...”

“There are a lot of crimes. A lot to answer for.” His father countered, scratching his red beard before taking another bite of his breakfast. “Eggs are good, woman.”

“Came fresh from Ingrid this morning. Had enough left from trade for some real white sugar too.”

“I noticed.” Da nodded. “I approve.”

“I’ll make apple fritters for dessert tonight.”

Haming lit up at the mention of apple fritters and so did his da.

“And there are some that disagree.” She continued, like an afterthought, but those words made da frown again. She only resumed her stirring, sweat beading her forehead from being at the fire for most of the day, but already the rich scents of the wild pork simmering in carrots, cabbage, leeks, and broth were filling their small home and it made Haming hungry for better than just fried eggs.

“He killed High King Torygg, woman. In cold blood.” His father’s tone of voice clearly indicated that _his_ was the official opinion of the house. It just left Haming confused and he didn’t like that his parents fought more often since the news of the High King’s death reached Helgen. That it was the Jarl himself who killed the High King. Using the Voice. He didn’t know what that was, only that it was powerful, and the Jarl could do it. He had heard stories of the Jarl’s great deeds, the Great War, Markarth with all those wild naked Reachmen. How does one go from that to killing a king? It didn’t make sense to him.

“Can they even kill a Jarl, da?” He asked. “Behead him like a common criminal?”

“No man is above the laws of Skyrim, little cub. Ulfric Stormcloak must pay for his crimes, like everyone else. It’s not just the High King. Nord blood was shed in Karthwasten.” His da answered, still eating.

“Some say it was the Imperials who shed that blood.”

“Woman, enough.” His da warned, his voice going low. “Not in front of Haming.”

Ma frowned, her stirring going much faster, and she angrily brushed a lock of brown hair away from her face, pushing it back within her bun. Ma’s mood was ever in her stirring. Da gestured with his head towards Haming’s plate. “Eat up, we got a lot of wood to prepare for the Legion.”

“Gerdur’s lumber arrived, Torolf?” she asked, the stirring calming down a bit. They never stayed mad at each other long.

“Aye,” he took a sip of his coffee and another bite of eggs, “just before sunrise. Said her mill blade was dulling though, needs to have Alvor fix it before she can ship wood to us again. Means a slow week coming up." He smiled. "And that means fishing or camping if we want.” 

Haming grinned and his da gave him a wink, only for the older Nord’s face to suddenly change, going grim as if what he just said made him feel guilty. He stopped eating, only picking at his food. “Was really strange seeing both Hadvar _and_ Ralof today. Haven't seen them together since Haming's birthday.” He shook his head, before resuming his meal. “They used to be thicker than honey, those too. Like brothers. Cannot belief Ralof turned traitor like that, he used to come here all the time, was sweet on Vilod’s daughter…”

“It’s a loss at any rate. Jyta too, she’s here, Torolf, in binds, her brother as well.” Her face turned sad. “That’s why I went inside. I wanted my last memory of her,” she hesitated and bit her lip, looking like she may cry. She and Jyta were cousins. “I wanted her to be whole when I picture her in my mind, not with her head on a pike. Maybe it’s good for us to get away for awhile. Away from the fighting.” 

“I know.” His da sighed, rubbing his eyes again. “Can’t believe it. That they would follow a murderer like that.”

“May Kyne’s kiss greet them in Sovngarde.” His mother gently whispered.

“Not for the one that ran.”

“Mara's Mercy! Somebody actually ran?” She asked, raising her eyebrows.

“Aye, but no, not what you think. Not one of the Stormcloaks. A horse thief from Rorikstead. A quick arrow put an end to that, the coward." His eyes found Haming. "If anything, little cub, always face your death head on.”

“That’s Froki talking.” Ma observed.

“It’s the Nord way.”

“Da?”

“Hmm?”

“What about that white Elf?”

His da sternly looked up from his meal. “Don’t speak of that one.”

“Why?”

“He’s right, Haming. I didn’t like the looks of him.” Ma explained, taking a pause from her stirring. “I’ve never see—”

“A demon, says I." His da interrupted. "He’ll go to whatever plane of Oblivion takes him. A demon…Or worse. One of those night creatures.”

“You really think?” His mother looked shocked.

“They are pale with eyes like the fires of Oblivion, or so I’ve heard. Vampires.” His father explained while preparing another tankard of coffee. This one had no cream and a lot more sugar. For ma. “That’s all I need knowing. We can agree on one thing, Mattie, they should kill him, and kill him quick. Lest he get away with their magicks or something. Their kind, they know dark ways. Black magicks. Necromancy.” 

“Torolf!” 

“It’s the truth.” He placed the tankard of coffee opposite to his place at the table, next to Haming. “Come, Mattie. Sit, eat. Stew smells wonderful, but it can wait. Have your meal.”

His da partially stood, leaned towards him and Haming felt da’s bear paw of a hand tousle his hair. “The faster we prep that lumber, little cub, the quicker we can eat that goodness, eh? And the quicker we can then take a break from it all.” A smile and Haming grinned while his da sat back at his place. No one cooked a stew like his ma. 

“I know.” Haming’s mother rested the stirring spoon across the top of the kettle and slid her finished eggs from the iron skillet onto her own trencher. She liked them far less runny than he and da did. Haming wrinkled his nose, they were all bubbling and burnt brown at the edges, crispy and hard. He did not like that, not one bit. She sat opposite da, taking a long sip of steaming coffee. “Mmm, good.” She murmured, then offered the tankard to Haming. “Want a bit?”

Haming pretended to recoil like he was about to take fish oil for a case of the runs making his parents laugh. “No ma, I like it better the way da takes it. Yours is too sweet.”

“You put too much sugar, Mattie.” 

Haming felt the bear’s paw on his head again and he smiled while he ate his eggs.

She laughed. “I do no—"

A noise unlike anything Haming had ever heard suddenly drowned out ma’s voice. It was like a bear’s roar, but bigger, and mixed with thunder.

“What was that?” His ma asked, quickly putting down her coffee.

His father stood up and walked briskly, like any Nord, to fetch his axe. “I don’t know.”

It happened again and this time, Haming felt the walls of the house shake, it was so loud. He covered his ears and felt his mother pull him up from the table. “Cellar.” She whispered to his da while he at the doorway, axe ready in one hand, the other poised to open the door.

Torolf nodded quickly. “Little cub, move!”

Haming snapped to attention at the hushed command, crossing from the dining table to the sturdy stairs that led to the cellar. Without warning, the earth beneath their feet shifted, as if something extremely heavy had touched the ground. His father opened the door, took one look outside and shut it again, his face going as white as that Elf’s.

“Cellar! Now!” He barked. “We’ll be safe there.”

“What is it?” His mother asked. “What is it, Torolf?”

Another roar and it was so loud, Haming felt like his ears were going to explode. Ma screamed. 

“What is it?” She panicked and his heart started to beat real fast in fear. 

“Ma, the cellar!” He yelled, motioning her to come with his hand.

“Mattie, move!”

“What is it?!” She creamed again, frozen.

There was a strange popping sound coming from outside, like the pop lighting can make when it’s about to strike and Haming felt the hair on the back of his neck and head rise. He saw the hairs of his parents’ heads rise too and he felt the charge build in the air, the strangeness of it.

All three jumped when a loud booming sound rattled throughout the house, sending bits of thatch to the floor. Another boom and their windows exploded, sending sharp shards of glass everywhere. He heard his da’s growl of pain and saw blood out of the corner of his eye. Another deafening roar and Haming could now hear the screams outside, the soldiers yelling. The ground shook again, and a thick, black smoke poured through the windows.

“Da!” He cried, seeing blood stain the abdomen of his hide armor. He could see a glass shard poking through the flesh.

“I’m coming! It’s just a bit of glass.” He yelled. “Get your ma! Now!”

Haming started towards his mother, only to stop at the sound of wood splitting and burning thatch. An explosion rang through his ears and he saw something flaming burst through their roof, sending debris everywhere. He quickly covered his face with his hands and ducked. His mother’s scream was high pitched and then it stopped, replaced by the impact of solid rock upon their wooden floor and the crunch and splatter of bones and blood. He felt a splash of thick, hot wetness on his hands and felt his da’s hands roughly grab his shoulders, yanking him away from the fire that now engulfed their home. Another fiery stone hit the stairs, blocking their route to the cellar.

“Mattie, Mattie, Mattie…” His da kept repeating while they pushed through the door of their home into the black smoke.

“Ma? Ma? No!”

“Mattie…she’s gone, boy...”

The smoke was hot, choking him, forcing him to close his eyes, and his da’s big hand covered his mouth while he practically dragged him outside. They left the inferno that was their house behind and cleared the smoke, escaping outside. He knew he was outside, because there were still cool spots wherever the smoke thinned. 

Only outside didn’t seem any better, from what he could now see through the film of his tearing eyes. People were running, streaked with soot and blood. Some sat on the earth, just screaming, frozen in place in horror, like his ma had been. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Vilod, only the publican was hanging awkwardly from the railing of the inn, his body broken and twisted in a way that was impossible to describe. Haming ran, or rather, was forced into running by his da, but it was jerky running, because they would stop and rapidly change direction all the time whenever another fire rock hit the ground. It was raining fire rocks and Helgen was burning. How does it rain rocks? The roars continued and Haming felt the strong breeze of something whooshing quickly close above him, smelled acrid sulphur mixed with the smell of… an animal. Chicken? Chicken feet? He did not have time to take anymore guesses when both he and da were pushed hard to the ground by the wake of what moved past them. He heard his da groan in pain. 

“Grab him.” His da gasped weakly from the ground.

“Torolf! I can get you too.” Another voice. 

“No, grab him!” A moan of pain and then a roar from his own da, as if he was summoning all his remaining strength. “Take him now, now!”

Another pair of rough hands grabbed Haming’s shoulders, lifting him up, and he felt the security of iron armor against his back. Gunnar, it was Gunnar Stone-Eye.

“Take him. I’m done for.”

“Da!” He cried out, opening his eyes, forcing them to see.

His da was on the ground, clutching his stomach, the blood seeping through his hands, his face very pale under the soot, blood running from a wound to his head onto his eye. Haming could see part of his da’s skull, and the left side of his body was burned black. Close to him knelt an Imperial soldier and to the left, struggling to get up, was the white Elf, his hands still tied, the back of his tunic almost soaked in blood. He was watching the sky while he struggled to get up, his eyes blazing. Like he was tracking the beast.

“It comes for another pass.” The Elf warned, finally pushing himself up with his strong legs. “From the Northeast.”

“I know, prisoner!” The Imperial soldier barked. “C’mon Torolf, get to your feet! Gunnar, you got the boy?”

“I do, Hadvar.” Haming felt Gunnar press his shoulders back against the old Nord’s armor.

Hadvar! Haming had not seen him since his ninth birthday. It was him, he could recognize him now. Hadvar eyed the Elf, but refocused his attention on Tofolf. “C’mon Torolf.”

Da moaned and Haming felt a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, smelling the sudden stench of urine in the air, saw wetness between his da’s legs. His da had wet himself. Why?

“He is dying. I can smell it.” The Elf pressed. “We need to move.” 

“Can’t you help him, prisoner? I know you can heal. Saw it at the camp.”

“The Thalmor took too much from me. Maybe make his passing easier, that is all.” He bent his head. “Sorry.”

“Fuck.” Hadvar cursed, “Then save it for those who still have a chance, prisoner.” He put a hand on his da’s shoulder. “Fuck!” He cursed again. “We’ll take the boy, Torolf.” He gave his da’s shoulder a squeeze."You can count on us." 

“Da? No, wait, help him.” Haming began to squirm away from Gunnar, only the Nord held him fast.

“It’s over, Haming. Let him go.”

“No, no, Da!”

“I'm done… for, little… cub. Go. Run… for it!” His da moaned. He grabbed Hadvar’s forearm. “Take my boy,” he pleaded, his face contorted in pain. “Please! Save him! Gun—”

Another roar and Haming finally had the courage to look up. To the sky, his mouth opening slowly in absolute terror. Its massive scaled body was the color of hot coals, the color of coal when it’s at its most dangerous. Not red hot, easy enough to see and avoid, but darkest black on the outside, so one thinks it’s cold, but if one looks closely enough, it can be seen, the outline of red embers. The deep heat. The immense blackness of its leathery wings almost covered the sky, which now churned and whirled purple and grey like a mighty thunderstorm as it rained more fire rocks upon Helgen.

It was heading straight for them and as it approached, Haming could now see the huge, many horned head with rows of sharp black teeth, and two eyes, like two jewels of purest fire.

“Run! It’s coming!” The Elf yelled. Hadvar got up and pushed towards Gunnar, while Haming, snapped to attention. His da. He needed help.

“Da?” He tried to break from Gunnar’s grasp.

“Go!” His da managed. “Run Haming! Make me proud! _Ru_ —”

All of them, even the large Elf, stumbled when the great beast’s feet and wings landed upon the ground, making the very earth tremble. Haming could not even fathom the size, it was so, so large, the size of the entire Keep, it seemed to him. It had landed about three lengths of its immense head away from them and Haming could feel the heat radiating from the beast. The maw then opened.

“RUN!” The bound Elf cried, turning quickly, using his broad, muscled shoulder to begin pushing Hadvar away from the beast’s path. It was like he was putting his own body between the Imperial soldier and the beast, like he was shielding him, while Haming and Gunnar were in front of Hadvar. The action confused Haming because why would a vampire do that? 

“We won’t make it!” Gunnar yelled. “Its fire is coming. NO!”

Haming turned back to look, his eyes widening, fixed on the beast’s maw. What was the black depth of its throat began to glow like the hot fire of Alvor’s forge. It grew and grew and grew in intensity until it could be confined no longer within the beast’s mouth. Then the beast's voice thundered so loud, Haming’s ears rang, he felt the blood trickle from them and he screamed in pain at the pressure in his head. They started to run, but not fast enough. 

“No time!” Gunner bellowed. “Talos! Please! Not like this!” 

“Auri-El! Give me strength!” Haming vaguely heard someone cry out. “Hadvar, hold me steadfast! NOW!”

“YOL TOOR… _SHUL_!!!”

A huge stream of fire left the beast’s mouth and rushed towards them. His da became nothing, charred bones in the path of the fire. And all Haming could do was watch, helpless.

The Elf’s big body was between them and the creature, his back towards the beast, with both Gunnar and Hadvar pushing against him, as if bracing him. Something in Elf’s skin began to change, like it was suddenly highlighted by a golden-white energy. At first, it was all over the Elf’s body, but then it traveled, concentrating within his bound hands. Finally, it erupted, becoming a shimmering white-blue light, like rippling water to Haming, or a whirlpool. The whirlpool grew and grew, and Haming’s eyes grew wide with wonder. Magicks! Like one of those witch elves some people grumbled about. Like the elves in black that had left just before he went inside for breakfast. 

The Elf cried out in pain when the jet of fire smacked the magical wall. The impact from the beast’s fire was so hard that all of them lunged forward, but the wall held steady as fire coursed all about them, deflected by its shimmering light. “It’s holding!” The white Elf snarled through clenched teeth, straining from the effort, his face going from white to nearly red, the veins on his muscular neck and forehead throbbing. Haming screamed in terror, feeling the heat of the flames build all around him. The Elf let out another cry and the wall grew bigger. It was as if the fire was trying, searching for a way around the shimmering wall, but trying as it might, it could not find a way around. Gunnar pulled him closer, nearly cutting his shoulders with his chest plate.

“Hold on, boy! Hold on!” The old Nord encouraged. 

The fire died and the Elf’s wall failed soon after, sending him to his knees breathing heavily, his braided long white hair almost totally soaked from the effort, the face now devoid of any color, a ribbon of dark red blood coming from one of his nostrils. The beast roared in anger and vaulted to the air. Leaving a great cloud of dust in its wake. Haming saw the Elf's eyes follow the beast with a furrowed brow, his mouth open in awe. 

“Gunnar, take care of the boy. I have to find General Tullius and join the defense!” Hadvar ordered, dragging the still dazed Elf to his feet. “You better stay with me, prisoner, and pray to that god of yours that you’ve some magicks left.” Hadvar pushed the Elf forward,nearly making him fall in his attempt to drive him towards a cluster of soldiers with fire almost pouring from their hands. More mages, flanked by other soldiers and the general himself, his gold-trimmed Imperial armor covered in a black grime. 

“Into the Keep, Hadvar, we’re leaving. We’re LEAVING!” The General ordered.

Hadvar roughly turned the Elf in the other direction. “This way!” 

The Elf seemed to not like that decision, resisting the push, and once again, he locked eyes with Haming, the slanted brow further with what looked like concern to the boy. 

“There are people who still need help.” The Elf said in a breathless voice, as if it took a lot energy for him to even speak still. He wanted to help people even though he was bound and that surprised Haming. This wasn't a vampire or a demon like da said. The Witch Elf turned back to Hadvar. “Hadvar, please.” 

Hadvar groaned, shaking his head in worry, like how Haming sometimes would when he knew he was going to do something he was told not to do, but he was going to do it anyway. “I know, I know, shit. But I have orders."

"Hadvar." The Elf repeated, the eyes growing intense.

"Shit. We’ll see what we can do. You and me, prisoner, let’s go. Get as many people into the Keep as possible.” 

The Elf nodded, looking relieved, and Haming last saw both disappear into the billowing smoke towards the Keep, towards the screams.

Haming felt a push against his shoulder, urging him to move. “Gods guide you, Hadvar.” Gunnar murmured. Another nudge. “Move boy, move. We’ll take the back exit towards Pinewatch. Lose the monster in the woods! Damn Witch Elf saved our lives. Still don't believe it. Did better for us than that spineless General. Already running! Imperial Cowards! Poor Hadvar’s too brave for the likes of them! Move! Move boy!” 

They bolted towards the back exit. It was a stone archway, well hidden behind the keep. It lacked a gate and he always used it with his da and ma when they would go fishing or camping. There was a small pond southwest, towards Falreath, his favorite, favorite place… Haming felt the sting of tears as he ran, but he stopped it. They were gone now and he had to be stronger than a cub. He had to be a bear. He swallowed the pain away and gritted his teeth. 

_Make me proud,_ he heard his da’s voice. 

He willed his legs faster, only for Gunnar to grab him, nearly making him fall on his arse. “Stormcloaks! By the gate. Shit.” Haming barely caught a glimpse of a small group of Stormcloak soldiers, now free from their binds and fully armed, crouching against the stone wall before Gunnar dragged him behind a singed building where they hid, trying to inch closer. “Stay still. I’ll have a look.” Haming froze while Gunnar peaked from their hiding place and then spit, hiding again. “The Jarl. He’s there.” 

“Is that bad?” Haming asked.

“Dunno yet, son.” Gunnar Stone-Eye answered, his one good eye squinting to get a better look at the gate. Haming poked his head out as much as he dared. They were so close, close enough for them to make a run for it. Close enough to hear them talking. 

“Where’s Ralof?” The Jarl asked, his soot-streaked face on edge. “Gunjar, Jyta, Erald?” He beat his thigh with his fist. “Fuck, we are missing people! We’ve lost enough already.” 

“We need to go on, my Jarl.” One soldier warned, tall, but much thinner than the others, carrying a gnarled oaken staff with a crystal at the tip. A girl? Haming couldn’t tell, she wasn’t built like his ma. “It’s not stopping. The...the…” 

“Dragon, go ahead and say it, Sigva.” The Jarl finished, looking very tired to Haming just then. “The end times…” 

“No. It can’t be.” The soldier shook her head in disbelief. “They are gone.” Haming and Gunnar lowered their heads and just stared at each other, their eyes saying the same thing. 

_Dragon._

“Hold a minute. Let me think, dammit.” The Jarl nodded, rubbing his face. “What’s the closest camp?” 

“Sun-killer’s.” She answered.

The Jarl nodded. “Well-supplied, but, shit, he is _very_ east of here and I’m not doubling back through fucking Helgen. We’ll have to… let me think. We need to get out first. Maybe wait. See if anyone else comes out. A day.” He pointed towards the woods. “There, in the woods, If we stay low. We can avoid it. See if others make it.” 

“I don’t advise--” 

“Don’t presume to advise me, mage. I will lose no more men!” 

"Yes, my Jarl." She nodded, but Haming could see that she wasn’t happy about waiting. He didn’t blame her, he didn’t want to wait either. They all waited several tense moments and the mage spoke again. “I do not think he made it, my Jarl. The Witch Elf. You’re waiting for him too, aren’t you?” 

The Jarl faced her, his brow lowering, almost as if he was angry, but then his features softened. “Perhaps.” he mumbled. “We were at the Keep’s tower, he jumped to the roof of the inn. Then I lost track of him.” 

“Is it true, that you knew him?” 

“He saved my life once.” The Jarl looked past the archway, towards the burning keep, his blue eyes on the dragon that, after what seemed like forever to Haming, still managed to find new things to burn down in Helgen. “It’s moving closer. Shit.” 

Gunnar looked worried when he faced Haming. “The Jarl’s right. We need to make a run for it and join up with them. I don’t think… well, I hope they just see us for what we are, gentlefolk, and let us be. When I say ‘move’, you move. Head to the archway. You hear me, son?” 

Haming nodded, his heart hammering at his chest. 

The dragon roared and abruptly changed its position from the far gate, flying from the keep’s entrance, as if something had suddenly angered him to no end. 

“Haming, MOVE!” 

Without thinking, Haming rose and both he and Gunnar escaped the ruined building, heading towards the archway as fast as their legs would carry them. That caused the Stormcloaks to ready their bows, the Jarl included. The one the Jarl had called ‘Sigva’ was different. She didn’t have a bow. Instead, the crystal at the head of her staff began to glow with an ice-blue light. Haming thought they were going to shoot at them as they ran. 

It quickly grew dark, as if clouds covered the sky, and Haming looked over his shoulder, only to see the great mass of the dragon fast approaching, its maw opening wide. It shut out the very sun!

“Haming!”

“YOL TOOR… _SHUL_!!!” 

Words became flame.

Haming felt Gunnar grab him and toss him roughly to the side. He landed and rolled, feeling the flames only nick at his legs. The heat was searing, the smoke billowed like thundercaps, and Gunnar’s screams filled Haming’s ears. Just like ma’s, high-pitched, shrieks, and then nothing. Out of the corner of his eye, Haming saw arrows volley towards the beast and many shards of ice. The arrows, though true, merely bounced off the beast’s scales while the many ice shards became nothing but harmless steam. 

“FUS RO… _DAH_!!!” 

Words became force. That wasn’t the dragon and Haming’s eyes followed the sound. It came from the Jarl himself. A thunder pulse of force flew from the Jarl’s lips as he spoke, hurling it towards the dragon. A force that the dragon took directly, not budging from his place in the sky. Hovering mid air, it tilted its head to the side, as if assessing something. And then it did something that horrified Haming to his very core. 

It threw its head back and laughed. A deep rumbling hearty laugh that made the hairs on Haming’s neck stand on end while it resumed its dive, extending its taloned feet, ready to grab any or all of them at once, the feet were so large. 

“Run boy! Run like Oblivion is at your heels!” The Jarl urged, his eyes still wide from the Dragon's power. “Men, ready another volley!” 

Haming got up and raced towards the Jarl. The older Nord’s face darkened and he opened his mouth just as the dragon opened his. Was this the Voice? The Voice that killed the High King? Haming sped up, still looking over his shoulder. There was no way. He was going to die. He would be dust, like ma, da, and Gunnar. Like the Keep and everything else he had ever known in his life. 

And as soon as Haming thought it was going to be over for both him and the Jarl’s men, the dragon pulled up instead of completing its dive, pushing back its legs to rebuild its air speed, while it flapped its wings. It used its long, powerful tail to balance itself in the air, turning towards the Keep for a second time like it was a nothing move for it, seemingly drawn to something there. 

Haming saw stars when he slammed right into the Jarl’s great chest, knocking him to the ground. There were cries from the soldiers and Haming was practically thrown from on top of Ulfric Stormcloak. He felt the back of a strong hand strike his face, the force of the blow knocking him back to the ground, and he tasted his own blood. 

“Wait, wait, don’t hurt him, I’m fine.” The Jarl started to get up, coughing from the wind being knocked out of him while the battle mage helped him to his feet. “It was just an accident.” The hand that had cuffed him now picked him up by the fabric of his shirt and set him standing again. The same hand then ushered him towards the Jarl, who was rubbing his jaw of any residual stiffness. Haming didn’t even turn to see whose hand it was, he only knew that it belonged to a great big Nord. One of the Jarl’s soldiers from the other carts that drove to Helgen. All of them were free now.

“Now is our chance.” Jarl Ulfric spoke. “We go. Quickly!” They quietly crossed the stone archway, avoiding the road, and headed straight into the dense woods of Falkreath hold. Haming went with them, because there was nowhere else for him to go. “We’ll head south, southwest, towards the Jerrals, for a spell.” The Jarl spoke, his voice still hushed and breathless, because the dragon’s angry roars could still be easily heard. _It’s not finding what it’s looking for,_ Haming thought, his terror building again _._ “Then make the turn east,” The Jarl continued, “towards Sun-killer’s camp when we’ve truly lost the beast. Hunting and making camp along the way. If any others survive, they’ll know to go find Sun-Killer.” 

Haming felt the big Nord’s hand on his shoulder. “And the boy?” 

Ulfric stopped and stared at the lad. “Shor’s Bones, I totally forgot about him.” The Jarl sighed, taking a seat at a stump to catch his breath. “Come here, boy.” He beckoned. Whether Haming wanted to come or not was not up to him, but to the large hand that steered him towards the Jarl anyway. 

The Jarl was tall and large-framed with some extra fat at the waist just like his da, though his presence, even when seated, conveyed strength. His firm face was lined from exhaustion and hunger, with its share of cuts and bruises, the graying dark blond hair at his left temple caked with blood from an old blow. His noble clothing was dirty from dried blood and the dust of travel. At his side was an ebony sword in the Nordic style and an Imperial bow was crudely slung at his shoulder, the almost empty quiver of arrows at his waist. When Haming was close enough, the Jarl put a strong hand on his shoulder and Haming fought hard the coming tears because it felt big and sturdy, just like his da’s own hand. 

“You’ve a name, boy?” He then shook his head, as if realizing something, closing his eyes in thought before opening them quickly. “Wait, no. Haming, that is what the Nord called you before he fell to the dragon’s breath. Is that your name?”

Haming nodded. “Yes, Jarl Ulfric.” 

Ulfric Stormcloak took a deep breath. “You’ve any kin, Haming of Helgen?”

Haming shrugged and everything that he had experienced was hitting him all at once, making him shiver even though it wasn’t cold outside. “Fr…” He mouthed. “Fr…” His teeth started to chatter. “Fr…” 

“What?” The Jarl’s brow lowered. 

“Fro…” His ma, his da, everything burning. The dragon, the demon elf with his magicks. He saved his life and so did Gunnar, and so did the Jarl. He felt so sick to his stomach, the pressure building and he had to release it. 

“Fro...ki… Whet...ted...Bl...bl...bl...” Fluid filled his mouth and he felt the bitterness of bile, tasted his own breakfast for the second time. “Blade.” He managed before his vomit fell all over the Jarl’s clothes and lap, his legs suddenly going out from under him. The cool damp ferns felt so good on his hot face. He wanted to stay there, just become a part of the plants of the forest floor forever and ever. He wanted to sleep. 

“He’s in shock.” The Mage offered, and out of the corner of Haming’s eye, he could see her kneel next to him, her hand already starting to glow in a similar way to the Elf’s. “We should take him with us, at least to Sun-Killer’s camp.” 

“He’ll slow us down.” Argued the big Nord. “What if the Imperials catch up. We can’t risk the Jarl again. He almost died today!” 

The Jarl used a stolen Imperial cloak to begin wiping Haming’s vomit from his clothing. “Eggs, you had eggs, boy.” He mused before giving his soldiers a concerned look. “What are we fighting for then if we just leave him here to die?” 

The big Nord growled, but then sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Alright.” 

The mage turned Haming over and he saw her face clearly for the first time. Red hair, like da, her weathered face splattered with many freckles, cuts, and bruises. Her hazel eyes were blood-shot with fatigue. He saw her tan calloused hand glow and she rested it on his stomach. “This’ll help.” She said quietly, her formerly battle-worn features softening with a calming smile. The energy went into his body and he tensed up, frightened at something touching his body that wasn’t natural. “Shh, shh. It’s alright. Try to relax. Not all magic is bad.” She whispered, her forehead dampening from her efforts. “This will help you be strong enough to travel.” 

It made Haming remember the white Witch Elf. 

The Jarl got on his knees and bent over Haming. “Who’s Whetted-Blade to you?” He asked. “Answer, son. If I don’t have to send you to Honorhall, I won’t. I’ve had to do that far too much already.” 

Haming took a deep breath, easier since the mage used her magicks on him. “Grand da.” He managed sleepily. 

“He goes to Froki then.” The Jarl said, rising to his feet. “I know Whetted-Blade, he was the finest scout under my father. Lives in the Rift now .Some cabin near the Jerralls. He can travel there when he’s recovered.” 

“Froki...” Haming murmured, his eyes growing heavy, while the girl finished with her magicks. “He can’t cook…not at all...” 

“Jagyr, carry the boy. We move now, make camp at dusk.” The Jarl ordered. Haming felt the big Nord scoop him from the ground up like he was nothing but a sack of potatoes, hoisting him over his shoulder so he could still use his hands for combat if he needed to. The action made Haming moan and he felt the blackness of sleep creep over him.


	4. The Stone

“I cannot believe they did not even think to set you free.” Ralof frowned, reaching for Äelberon’s bound hands in the gloom of the Keep. They were crouched in a corner, close to a locked wrought iron door, the torchlight from the hallway beyond providing them with a meager light that barely outlined their features. At least for the Nord, Elven eyes are inherently better, not as strong in the dark as a Khajiit, but better than a human. His irises were probably nearly black now, the pupils dilated fully to allow the precious light in. He could see better than the Nord, but his hands were not positioned to cut off the binds himself. Vingalmo had seen to that.

“I think everyone was a bit occupied, Ralof.”

Both immediately tensed and looked towards the Keep’s ceiling when beast’s roars thundered through the thick stone walls, making it shake. Some splinters of wood fell from the ceiling’s support beams and there was an audible crack. The roar died away, making them release their breath in unison.

“It’ll cave the roof in if it makes another pass.”

“Aye.” Replied Äelberon, his eyes still cautiously on the ceiling.

“This’ll hurt, the rope’s cutting into the skin…” Ralof explained, wedging the blade of his dagger between the binds and the raw skin of Äelberon’s wrists. Another curse flew from the Nord’s lips.

“The dagger is dull.” He focused on Ralof’s hands while the Nord worked.

“I know. Everything is dull, fucking Imperial bullshit can barely cut butter... I’m just glad Ulfric managed to retrieve his sword in the confusion. It’s belonged in his family for many generations. Now that would make short work of thi—” 

Äelberon clenched his jaw and blinked, releasing a soft grunt of pain when Ralof’s cutting skimmed flesh instead of rope. A warm wetness seeped into the fibers. More blood.

“Shit, sorry.” The Nord grumbled. “Can barely see.”

“It is alright. Just a wee nick. Keep working.” Äelberon reassured. “And thank you.”

“It’s nothing.” The Nord muttered, not even looking up.

“It is something.”

“No one should die in binds. That is all.”

Äelberon waited.

“What kind of fucking knots are these?” Ralof growled a moment later, giving a tug on a particularly stubborn one while he assumed a cross-legged position to giving him a better work angle. He then positioned Äelberon’s hands roughly to rest on his thigh. The stretching of his back aggravated the lashes, but he understood what Ralof was trying to do and suffered in silence. “We were not bound like this. They really didn’t want you escaping, did they?”

“Once bitten, twice shy.” Äelberon managed a wily smile, looking up at the Nord from his lower angle. He felt the knife cut through some the rope. Slowly but surely, Ralof’s persistence was paying off.

The Nord looked from his work, and nodded, a small smirk forming on his mouth. “I can see that.” Another piece of rope gave and Ralof used his forearm to wipe the sooty sweat from his brow before he continued. “One day, you and Jarl Ulfric will have to sit me down and tell me that story. Preferably over some mead served by the lovely Suzanna over at the Candlehearth in Windhelm. So hungry and thirsty, we should search the Keep for food.”

“Just keep cutting and we will see. Would like to give my nose a proper wipe.” 

The Nord chuckled, but the nosebleed bothered Äelberon. It was an indicator that things were not well, and he knew that using the ward to save the group from the beast’s fire had cost him dearly. The bodily repairs that were steadily being conducted since the cart ride from Darkwater had abruptly ceased. The magicka was simply gone and there would be no more healing until he could properly rest. Of course, he would continue to try because his body in a dangerous situation. Already, his temperature was beginning to soar, now forced to fight the infection that was spreading throughout his body from the open lash marks, feeling the congestion building in his sinuses and lungs from days of brutal exposure to the elements. He was sick, something an Altmer mage almost never was. _You did not want the child to die, you stupid old Knight._

His gasp of relief when the binds finally fell from his hands was quickly replaced by a stifled moan of pain. The skin was on fire and he could smell the sickly clear liquid that had beaded upon the raw skin where the rope had been merciless. Äelberon swallowed. Now was not the time to dwell on his injuries. 

“You alright?” Ralof asked.

“Aye.” With his typical Dusken fortitude, Äelberon willed himself to a seated position, looking around the room, smelling blood besides his own and Ralof’s. Fresh blood. There was death here and it was not by the beast.

 _Dragon, it is a dragon_ , Äelberon mused, still in awe of it all. The terrified screams of Helgen’s villagers said as much. They all ran like mice scattering when one enters a dark barn with a torch, the smell of fear not this keen since the Great Anguish when the skies of his Homeland burned. And it was… beautiful. He shook his head, almost ashamed of his assessment after having seen so many people die, burned into nothing, or ripped asunder. It was a horrible creature, unlike any demon he had ever seen, but he could not help but marvel at it as it flew, colored like burning coal, glowing hot under the jet black gloss of its scales. The horns and spikes many, pointed, and cruel, surrounded a face that he could not place within all Tamriel, for no creature possessed its likeness. The hard lines of a wamasu, the hooked snout of a gryphon, the teeth, more plentiful and sharper than a crocodile’s. And its eyes. Intelligent, fearless eyes, like two jewels of the purest fire. Larger than any creature he had ever seen and by far, more powerful, more graceful. It was more than Bet and Bet had been almost unreal in his power. This thing made old Bet look like a damn toy. He had bloody thrown everything into that ward, every drop of magicka he had left, draining himself dry. Another pass and they all would have died. But then it left them, in what was almost a capricious action. Like they were not even worth the trouble to it.

Äelberon shrugged off his speculation and continued his survey of the room while Ralof stood, sheathing the dagger. Cloth to bind his wrists would be ideal, weapons, and aye, the lad was right, food, and drink. He did not have much strength left in him and hoped there would be no more combat. He turned when the Human shook the barred door again, knowing they were locked, but Äelberon understood. It was something to do.

“We need a key.” Ralof observed, giving the door a final frustrated shake. “It is like we are prisoners yet again.” He griped.

It was Äelberon’s sense of smell as much as his vision that eventually led him to two bodies, partially obscured by an overturned table and broken chair, close to the back of the circular room, where the torch hastily lit on the wall revealed burn marks from recently cast spells. One body clearly belonged to a Stormcloak soldier and when Ralof turned to follow Äelberon motions, his pained cry and sudden dash towards the bodies gave the Mer more than enough information. 

He knew the Nord. It was to be expected in war. How many bodies had Äelberon seen in his day that revealed themselves to be a person known? Far too many, he scowled in his mind.

“Gunjar…” Spoke Ralof as he knelt by the body, his blue eyes beginning to mist when he turned the Nord over. Äelberon knew he was truly sick when his stomach turned over at the sight. He swallowed, fighting his nausea, but to no avail. He wretched, feeling nothing but a watery bile escape his mouth onto the Keep's stone, his empty stomach knotting. Nearly half of the Nord's face was rendered a blistering, bleeding mess, the melting skin and tissue exposing the jawbone and teeth, and the left eyeball to the socket. The dragon only grazed him. Yet he managed to live long enough to give the other body an axe to the chest. “By Talos, he’s still warm… ah,” Ralof’s put his face to his palm, trying to rub some of the tension away. “If only you had waited for me.”

Äelberon furrowed his brow as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. _What can you offer the lad? An ‘I am sorry’ is so cheap and mundane._ Circumstances beyond their control willed the Nord dead, willed him to Kyne’s final kiss, just as it willed the death of the Imperial lying next to him, just as it willed him to follow Ralof instead of the Nord Hadvar. Both had called him, both beckoned with the promise of releasing him from his bonds.

No, it was the dragon. The great black beast landed right between he and Hadvar after they worked to move several more away from its destructive path. In the flickering light, he studied the dead Nord’s mangled face. _You knew him too_. Laughing grey eyes, despite everything, laughing eyes. From the campfire as they traveled from Darkwater to their deaths. Now lifeless. _He even laughed at several of your lousy jokes, old Mer._

“He understood the risks of the Arena.” He finally spoke, choosing his words carefully. “We all do when we choose to battle in it.”

Ralof glanced at him, the reddening eyes quickly regaining their resolve, and he nodded. The Nord then began rummaging through the Gunjar’s body, searching. “Let’s see if he swiped anything from the Imperials before he died.”

The lad’s realism would have phased a normal Altmer, but Äelberon understood. “I will search the other.”

That got a surprised look from the Nord and Äelberon responded with a knowing smirk. “I am a priest, Ralof, but I am practical. Too many years in the wilds. Too many years running. You become very resourceful.” 

“Just the damn axe.” Ralof grumbled after a few moments yielded nothing, yanking it off the other body and almost throwing the weapon down. The Nord rubbed his face. “At least he put it to good use.”

The Nord would, of course, ignore the bow, the real prize, and what looked like a ring from the Imperial’s middle finger that was faintly glowing... “This ring seems like it is enchanted and...” He murmured, while taking the ring from the body’s finger. “There is a bow.”

“A bow?” The Nord made a sour face.

“What is wrong with a bow? Surely you hunt with them? It is not like you go around swinging your warhammers at a deer, do you?” Ralof’s pregnant pause made Äelberon’s eyebrow slowly raise. _You cannot be serious, lad._

“Hunting is one thing, fighting is another. Hmph. Scouts have their place, I do not deny that, but there is less honor attacking from a distance.” Ralof finally scoffed, giving Äelberon a once over, though the Mer admitted, he was relieved that Nords were not actually stupid enough to hunt with warhammers. He shook his head _, you are just being silly now, Old Mer._ “Every time you give me a reason to think you could well be a Nord, you give me two more reasons why you are a bloody Elf. A magic ring, A bow. Ooooooo, Orial send me to Aetherius! I’m so happy to find these things! What a boon! Grace of the Gods! Orial’s bow be praised forever and ever!” He grumbled, doing an imitation of Äelberon’s ‘snide’ voice that was actually not half bad. “We need a bloody key… not magicks, Knife Ears.”

Äelberon shook his head, narrowing his eyes. He almost took the bait and said something snarky, only to set his jaw. _He cut your bonds, clearly, he does not totally despise you, Knife Ears_. He grunted and picked up the bow and a nearby quiver, taking them to the light from the wrought iron door to have a better look.

Another dragon roar made him quicken his pace.

“We still need to find a key.”

“I know, I know…” 

_The Human is practically jumping out of his skin for that bloody key. Bah, cut him some slack, you are both on edge and you want out too._

Äelberon’s enthusiasm dampened upon closer inspection of the bow. It was a bit of a wonky-looking weapon, as if the Imperial had hit it against the wall when he was pushed perhaps? A recurve bow of official Imperial Legion design, but not of the best construction, slipshod. The quiver was no better, yielding what was perhaps the worst made steel arrows he had ever seen. _Who is being a snotty shit now, eh?_ It was human craftmanship, that was all. There was nothing they could do about it; they simply lacked Altmeri patience and the obsessive attention to detail. The craftmanship, to human eyes, would have been more than satisfactory. To a human, this was a solid weapon. But humans are not bound to the bow as the Merish are.

“Hmm…” Ralof murmured.

Äelberon faced the Nord, testing the bow’s draw strength. He was not impressed, but it would have to do. “What?”

The Stormcloak gave Äelberon another once over.

“What? Is something wrong?”

“I don’t think those rags of yours will last, the leg is already almost as shredded as your tunic and I can bloody see your underbreeches. And that is more than I _ever_ want to see from an Old Mary.” With those words, Ralof knelt next to the Imperial and started to strip the body, switching his focus from his grisly task to Äelberon, as if he were studying the Mer’s body. “In all my days… never thought I’d be doing this.” He mumbled while he worked. “Built like a fucking ox… or an Orc.” After a moment, Ralof let the now half naked Imperial fall unceremoniously back to the floor with a hard thud. “None of his shit will fit you. I guess you’re back to being a Nord, Knife Ears. Never seen an Elf so big.” He eyed Gunjar’s body and shook his head. “Fuck…”

Ralof was clearly hesitant to do the same to Gunjar.

Äelberon leaned towards Gunjar, his hands reaching for the dead Nord’s arm. “Want me to—”

“Don’t you dare touch him!” The Nord snapped. He then sat, leaning back heavily against the stone wall, looking suddenly quite tired. “I’m sorry. It’s… it’s…”

“I understand.” Äelberon replied, moving back to rest on his haunches, keeping his distance.

It was unspoken and deep, the hatred between Men and Mer and Äelberon did understand. He knew such hatred in his life, felt it rage within himself. And such things were hard to overcome. Or they are never overcome, he thought grimly, picturing the bastard Vingalmo’s smug smile.

“I will manage with what I have.” Äelberon offered.

“No.” Ralof said quietly, willing himself from against the wall. “You will learn that we are an honorable people, Knife Ears, even to our enemies.” He scooted towards his comrade’s body, placing a hand on the dead Nord’s chest. “Gunjar was always fucking cold, damn milk-drinker, wore padded wool under his armor. You are almost the same in the chest. Not the legs though and damn, you’ve got big feet.” Ralof swallowed, holding back clear grief as he began to unfasten Gunjar’s Stormcloak cuirass, first removing the blood-stained steel blue sash that once proudly showed the man’s colors. “I will keep this.” He murmured, almost to himself, making sure that the cloth was nowhere near Äelberon. “Find his kin, see it to them. Somehow…” Ralof then undid the buckles and clasps of the thick leather jerkin. That, and the short-sleeved mail coat were slid almost reverently from Gunjar’s shoulders and torso, revealing the Nord’s padded dull wool gambeson, which he also took. “Sorry, friend, we’ll laugh about this when we meet again in Sovngarde, over a pint or two in Shor’s Golden Hall. Only time you can ever say a man stripped you.” He said as he pulled off Gunjar’s soft skin leather trousers. Ralof then crossed the Nord’s arms over his chest, placing the war axe in his right hand.

“A Kiss at the End, my brother.” Ralof whispered with great emotion, closing the Nord’s eyes before his lips tenderly kissed Gunjar’s bloody brow. 

It was sacrilegious to bring an Altmer to a Nord funeral in Cyrodiil and he had missed many a Fighter’s Guild friends’ funerals as a result, forced to pay his respects from an acceptable distance. Especially since the Great War when Nordic ritual was under such close scrutiny. That Ralof let him see this showed… _It shows that the Nord was at least not willing to shove ya out the door back to the dragon._

The clothes and armor were then shoved towards Äelberon. “Try them.” Nord said coldly, turning away to give Äelberon some privacy, his face stoic.

His felt his face go white with pain when the wool fabric scraped against his festering wounds, and he struggled with both the mail and the jerkin, eventually forced to abandon the mail when the pain became unbearable.

“I cannot wear the mail.” He gasped as he secured the jerkin as tight as he dared. “Not now.”

“Take it anyway, it’s expensive. It can be sold.”

“Alright. Ready.”

Ralof’s sarcastic snort when he again faced Äelberon was utterly predictable, even by Human standards, though his eyes betrayed a deeper sadness. The Nord did not want him wearing Gunjar’s gear. “Stupid long white legs.”

Äelberon looked down and aye, the trousers, though loose on his waist – _lost some weight there, old Mer_ – were about three pertans too short on the legs, revealing the white skin of his ankles to comical effect. The rest fit adequately enough, albeit tight around the chest, shoulders, and back, though again, he was too long of arm. ‘Like a colt you are, boy, all limb’, he could hear his Ata say in his head. 

“You will not fit his boots, and I do not love that you are in his armor, you profane him by wearing it, I hope you know that, Knife Ears, but like I said, you have a right to defend yourself too. Gunjar was an honorable man and would want a person to have a fair chance.” The Nord shrugged. “Sorry. I know that you are not like them, but then I see your ears and your alien eyes. It is hard not to hate. They have a lot to answer for.” Quietly, Ralof folded Gunjar’s colors and managed to tuck it under the belt of his jerkin. “We’ll need to find a sack or something for this. A pack. I do not want it to get filthy here.”

“I understand.”

Ralof cleared his throat. “Let’s see if we can get out of here before the damn dragon crashes the Keep upon our heads. The end times… what a fucking mess…”

They both froze when voices came from the heavy wrought iron gate opposite the more slender iron door on the other side of the Keep’s circular hallway, followed by the hurried footsteps clad in Imperial armor.

“Bet they can hear them coming from fucking Summerset, eh?” Ralof whispered, giving Äelberon a sidelong glance while they crouched low by the Keep’s entrance. “Clank like a damn kitchen.” 

“Get this gate open! I heard voices.” Barked a command. The Captain, from the execution, Äelberon recognized the voice that condemned him to the block. He and Ralof exchanged looks and Äelberon lifted his bow to indicate that he would give Ralof cover during the Nord’s charge. The Nord scoffed and shrugged his approval, making Äelberon roll his eyes when Ralof turned his back to him to edge his way closer to the edge of the Keep’s archway.

“Yes Captain.” Another voice. He made out two sets of footfalls.

“Be ready to engage any hostiles. We know some Stormcloaks escaped in the chaos.”

They heard a heavy lever being pulled.

“Should we try talking to them?” The hard look on Ralof’s face made Äelberon immediately regret his question.

“Not if you want to continue wearing Gunjar’s armor, Knife Ears.” The Nord snarled, drawing his own war axe. “Ready that stupid bow, we will fight our way out of this Keep. Take back what they have taken from us.” Ralof’s features darkened. “Or I’ll strip Gunjar’s armor from your dead body myself.”

It was better to remain silent after Ralof’s threat. Dragon be damned, they were still going to fight this war. Äelberon nocked an arrow and practiced another draw while the footsteps drew closer, leaning against the Keep’s wall, towards the darkness. It hurt like bloody Oblivion to draw. _It will have to do, Old Mer_ , he thought, knowing his face was changing, the worn survivalist beginning to manifest in his features, his eyes becoming like steel, his countenance hard. He said a speedy prayer, but Auri-El already knew the drill, knew it for as long as they became servant and Master. He would take life, according to the strict ethics of his Order, but he would still take life. Because it was part of Survival. 

***

In all his days, rain never felt so good. It was a heavy storm, soaking him to the bone, but Äelberon did not care. While his eyes adjusted to the daylight, the pupils going from wide to nearly pin points to account for the intense flood of light, he let the rainwater fall cool and refreshing upon his fevered face, his tangled hair, streaking his warpaint, rinsing the blood and grime from his body. The renewal that is rain. He felt like he wanted to stand there for hours and just let it wash away the past several days, let him start over, fix his mistakes. Cleanse him. He did not care that the two Nords with him were gawking at him like he was a crazy Mer, he just wanted the water.

The dragon’s sudden roar brought him back and Ralof yanked him down behind the glacier boulders just in front of the cave’s entrance, next to Jyta, a young Shield-Maiden they encountered deeper within the Keep. “Stupid, Knife Ears, what do you want to do, invite him to attack? Ysmir’s bloody beard!”

So they hid, like the sorry insects of the earth before a walking god, because all three knew when to pick a battle and when not to.

“Stay low, Priest.” Jyta whispered, still sounding tired. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her reach for a dingy red wool cloak with an Imperial insignia she was carrying under her arm and drape it over his back. “The rain will do you no good, Priest.” He turned his head to her, and she released a sad, ragged sigh, laced with fresh mourning.

“Thank you.” He said quietly.

“Your kind will not like our weather, Priest. Too cold.”

Of course, she did not know he was living in Bruma prior to all of this, called the Jagged Jerrals home when the moons didn't shine .

‘Priest’ was what she called him and she treated him with great compassion. After she had watched him attempt to heal her dying brother, unable to accept any more death today. That she even let him touch her brother was extraordinary. He was a Witch Elf to them.

Erald was his name, blond and blue-eyed with barely a beard, like so many who fought for Ulfric Stormcloak, like Jyta herself. They all looked similar to him to some extent, especially when they were blond. Their racial uniformity more like Altmer than they perhaps cared to admit.

The lad had an arrow in the chest and he thought that maybe he could save just one. But the magicks would not come and his nose bled anew. Undaunted, he then tried more conventional medicine, tried to staunch the bleeding, relieve the pressure on the lad’s collapsing lung, even daring to puncture a small hole in his chest so that the pressure could escape. That seemed to help initially, the breathing grew easier, the lad even joking with his sister. They had some time together before he yielded to injuries that Äelberon could not have seen without better equipment or magicks. Guilty for giving her hope, all he could do was offer the brave Shield-Maiden some comfort while she gave her brother his final Kiss. 

It had been a slaughter, a brutal skirmish within a large cavern that was a marriage between Keep and cave. Newly freed prisoners battled against a small company of Imperial soldiers, all on edge from the dragon attack, all still Oblivion-bent on continuing Skyrim’s Civil war, despite the Keep crumbling all about them. Courage and Nord fortitude proved little match for a well-coordinated ranged attack, one of the many things the Imperial Legion excelled at. It would have been a different situation in the wilds of Falkreath. The Imperials would have been slaughtered, falling to the Nord’s greater knowledge of the terrain and their superior asymmetrical warfare tactics, but the Legion always knew how to fight defensive battles within their own Keeps.

Äelberon had held his own throughout the skirmish, his own strength with the bow used to methodically break through the Imperial archery line. A conservative, patient sort of fighting that must have infuriated his fellow prisoners, but he was in no condition to engage in hand to hand, his body already beginning to give, the poison slowly working through his body through a fateful slash to the side.

 _A mage’s last defense_ , Rynandor used to tell him. He was now paying for the decision to not wear the mail.

He thought he was going to die in that chamber. He had made his peace with his Lord and with all his many failures.

The dragon then must have either landed or used its strange magicks because the ceiling of the cave partially collapsed without warning, rending the Imperial’s staunch defense of their Keep a moot point. Just like that, they were all dead, crushed bodies under rubble. A keen disadvantage to sticking together. A Stormcloak victory in Helgen. Ralof and Jyta of Riverwood, the only survivors to tell the tale to Jarl Ulfric, now had their passage to freedom. And Äelberon had his.

They did not notice that he scanned the bodies for the other Nord, the Imperial soldier Hadvar.

He was not among the dead.

From the safety of the rocks, the three watched the great black dragon circle the sky a final time before it flew to the mountains in the Northwest.

How dragons change things, Äelberon mused, wiping the sweat from his brow. He pressed his forehead against the snow-covered rock in a feeble attempt to cool his body down. And he tried again, shutting himself to the world so he could better focus, imagining himself in a vast dessert, digging for water, for Aetherius. If he could find a drop, just a single drop of the glowing light, like water, it would help a great deal. The warmth of fresh blood slowly streaking from a nostril gave him his answer. There was nothing left, and he let the searching image leave him with soft groan.

_You are on your own, Old Mer._

He felt Jyta’s cool hand on his fevered back. “Are you alright, Priest?” The hand on his back then traveled to his left side and though it barely touched the bloodstain around a small thin hole, he recoiled in pain all the same. Made from the blade of a small dagger, just enough of a well-made weapon to puncture the leather of Gunjar’s jerkin and on through the gambeson to his flesh. It did not create a deep wound, but it was more than enough.

 _A mage’s last defense_.

She turned to Ralof. “Ralof, the wound is infected, festering. Damn mage.” She cursed.

“A wee scratch is all.” He managed, still enjoying the coolness of the rock. It was more than a ‘wee scratch’, but it was his Order’s way to make things less than what they were. To give comfort when things seemed at their worst.

“A poisoned scratch.” Jyta spit on the ground. “The milk-drinker. Poison is not the Nord way. I cannot believe he would stoop that low.”

“He was no Nord and he was a mage.” Offered Ralof. “Did you expect anything less?”

 _They really have a low opinion of mages in this land_ , thought Äelberon. _None of the Nords, however, minded that fat ward of yours, Old Mer, when the dragon breathed the very fires of Oblivion upon them._

“And what is Sigva then?” Jyta asked.

“A mage.”

He _had_ felt magicka from one of the other Nord prisoners.

“She is not the monster we found in that stinking place of death. She heals, and her ice has helped us many times. Like the Clever Men of old. Do you really think she would also do this, Ralof?” He could see Jyta tilt her head to the side. “She is our friend. I can’t be—”

“That’s enough, Jyta.”

“We were in a torture chamber.” Äelberon explained. He almost added that he was pretty damn sure Ulfric used torture too but thought better of it. They were raw enough without him being his typical ‘Altmer’ self. “I think he was using it on his victims. Some poisons work slow, Jyta. Cause pain, but not death. You can torture that way. Thalmor use it, as do other races. I am sure this is what I am dealing with. It will pass.” 

_You will need to say penance for that wee half-truth, Old Mer._

“He needs a healer.” That was directed to Ralof who was still watching the vanishing dragon. Apparently, she was not buying what Äelberon tried to sell with his explanation.

The Nord grunted, shaking his head quickly in disagreement. “Are you mad, Jyta? Go to a healer now? This place will be _crawling_ with Imperials.” 

“He needs help. Maybe take him to Sun-Killer’s cam—” 

“Absolutely not!” Ralof’s angry tone said it all. Äelberon liked Jyta, but he understood Ralof.

“I am alright, lass.” Äelberon interrupted, breaking away from his wonderfully cool rock that he wanted to lean on forever to give Jyta one of his infamous smirks. The teasing smirks he often saved for the younglings that impressed him most. “Alright enough to let that she-bear know who was boss, eh?”

“I’ll give you that, Priest.” She said with a small smile that did nothing to hide her concern and it struck him that she cared so much when all they went through together was a trip from Darkwater and the madness of a dragon attack. She had a good soul. “’Twas a fine shot.”

“I still got it.” He chuckled, ignoring the pain in his side for a few moments of normalcy. “’Tis a fine skin; an old hunter always knows these things.”

A final cave before they knew freedom. A grotto really, with ferns and shrubs competing to grow where the gaps in the rocks allowed light and rain through. They accidently woke her, and she charged them, barreling, furious and fast, larger than any bear he had seen in Cyrod. In a show of strength and speed that said a hearty ‘fuck you’ to his weakening body, Äelberon brought the she-bear down with one shot, right in the eye. Then proceeded to skin the animal, demonstrating a country Mer’s grit that left the Nords with open mouths and wide eyes. Until they got down on their knees and helped him, noting that such a pelt would fetch a fine price in market, thinking ahead, being hopeful.

“Looks like he’s gone for good.” Ralof scanned the distance ahead and pointed northwest as he continued, “Wonder where he’s headed?”

“To Oblivion I hope.” Jyta cursed, hoisting her pack over her shoulder. “What do we do now?” She looked to Ralof for the answer as did Äelberon. He had a vague notion where he was but picturing a map in his mind and actually seeing the topography were two different things. 

It looked like mid-morning to Äelberon, judging by the look of the sky and the temperature, the lingering freshness of early morning dew still in the air. Incredibly bright, despite the storm clouds and heavy rain. It was hurting his eyes a little, causing him to squint. The rain continued to pelt them hard, while Ralof thought, the Nord’s brow lowering in concentration. He was weighing his options, deciding how much Äelberon would fit into his plans.

“We should go to Sun-Killer’s camp?” Jyta repeated. “It’s where Jarl Ulfric said to go.” 

“Eventually, but it’s too far,” his eyes fell on Äelberon, “and not with him. I’m not going all the way _back_ to Helgen to then head…” Ralof stopped suddenly, remembering himself. “ _That_ way.” It was clear that Ralof did not want to give the location of a Stormcloak camp away, even to someone who probably detested the Thalmor as much as Äelberon did. His words seemed to anger Jyta, who was a good youngling and sincerely wanted to help, but Äelberon saw the sense of it. Ralof’s Nordic features softened when his eyes fell on Äelberon’s bleeding side. “We do need a place now though. For our old bear-killer here to lick his wounds.” 

“Do not concern yourself with me. I am not licked yet.” With that, Äelberon summoned more of his Dusken pride, stood the fuck up, and adjusted his grip on his pack, a quickly put together bindle from the bearskin, a sparring staff from the Keep that he used as a walking staff to brace his side, and some Imperial vambrace lacing. It held what he considered the only things worth anything from the Keep, Gunjar’s mailcoat, some dried meat, some waterskins, the enchanted ring, an enchanted mage’s hood, and a dusty spell tome. The shoddy bow was now unstrung and more vambrace lacing was used, tied to the weapon to form a rudimentary sling so he could carry it and its quiver for the time being. A scratched Imperial gladius was sheathed at his side. “If you lead, I will follow. So decide, Human.”

Adding ‘human’ was the right call because Ralof smiled at Äelberon’s display of pluckiness. “You are like a mule, you know that, Knife Ears?”

Äelberon snorted. “You do not know the half of it. Now where to?”

His robust display of bravery was abruptly destroyed by Jyta reaching, standing on her tip toes, to move the sopping wet hood of his cloak to cover his head like a lenya covering up her errant youngling. It clung to his head pitifully, both freezing his body and soothing his fever all at the same time. "You'll catch your death in this rain." She fussed.

Ralof blew air, Jyta’s gesture clearly reminding him how ‘soft’ all Elves were. His eyes veered Northeast and then Northwest. “Sun-Killer is out of the question, Jyta. So, I think we should try for Riverwood.”

“To Gerdur?”

“Aye. She’s our best bet.”

“Who is this Gerdur?” Äelberon asked, but he assumed it was a relative of one of them. Or a friend.

“My older sister,” Ralof replied. “She runs the lumber mill. She’ll help us. Food, supplies… has no love for the Empire.”

“Very well.” 

They then walked, or rather trudged, the pouring rain weighing their gear and bodies down significantly. Ralof led, followed by Jyta, who bore the special burden of carrying the cloths of their fallen Stormcloak comrades in her pack, while Äelberon brought up the rear.

At least the rainstorm was doing them a service and cleaning them up while they walked.

After skinning the bear, Äelberon almost stripped to bathe the small stream that flowed through the grotto but decided against it. He wanted a bath, badly, partially to be clean and partially to soothe his feverish aching, but he guessed the Nords would not have appreciated the delay. It sort of disgusted him and intrigued him at the same time how they could walk around, eat, drink, all while covered in blood and filth, especially under the nails. It took every angaid of his own willpower to not touch his face with hands that were still crusted with dried blood and grime, despite rinsing them at the stream several times. He was a rustic Dusken, that was for sure, but Duskens were, contrary to Northern Altmeri views, a rather clean people. Nords were cleaner too, just not at this moment. They certainly did not wash in the same water that they spit and blew their noses into. That was an old Altmeri rumor that was quickly dispelled when Äelberon first encountered free born Nords in Cyrodiil. They would probably draw a bath at Gurdur’s, though a quiet, clean pond or stream would suit Äelberon just fine at this point. 

_Go on, keep thinking on how wonderful a nice bath will feel on your old bones, silly Mer._

Along the way, a dirt path slowly turning into an ancient road paved with worn stone and lined with alpine plants and forest. Ralof pointed out a large structure – a temple perhaps? – that dominated the mountains to the North, and Äelberon had to stop for a moment and just gaze at it, feeling his jaw drop.

“What is it?” He asked.

“Never seen a barrow before?”

“Aye, images, but, Auri-El’s Bow, not like this. The small ones, round, underground. That is what I saw… sketches mostly.”

“Those are cairns. This is different. Ralof leaned towards him, pride clear in his voice. “Impressive, isn’t it? All these years, and it still stands. One of the great landmarks of Skyrim. Some say, on a clear day, you can see it from the Jarl’s palace in Dragonsreach, all the way in Whiterun hold.” 

“Aye.” He whispered, studying the arched stone buttresses, the tips shaped in the image of a hawk, that jutted from the Barrow’s main building. It was a half-dome structure, partially imbedded within the bloody mountain itself, complimented by wide, flat stone stairs and precariously positioned stone lookouts. He did not imagine Nord architecture would feature such a sophisticated design. No, not the graceful Ayleid ruins or the vine-covered ancient Xanmeers of Murkmire, but incredibly imposing in an austere sort of way. The Tower never had images like this, only the small cairns. In his eyes, this was far more majestic. It was as if… Then dawned on him. He frowned, his silver brow lowering, and hated his People a little bit for their extreme arrogance. The Tower was the heart of Altmer pride, after all, so why bother showing the glory of others? Why show the truth of the world when flattery is so much better? He remembered Rynandor fighting to include such things and being told ‘no’. Well, the Tower is gone, and this barrow still stands, a reminder to Äelberon of the greatest of all Altmeri sins, pride.

“Does it have a name?”

“Bleak Falls Barrow.” Ralof replied. “Still cannot believe Gerdur lives under its shadow.”

“Why?”

Ralof spit and gave Äelberon a grim look. “The dead do not always stay dead in Skyrim, Knife Ears.”

“Vampires?” Äelberon raised his eyebrows in a question.

“No, not vampires. Draugr.” And he left it at that, urging Jyta and Äelberon to continue with quick flick of his head towards the road. They took the northwest fork in the road that followed a great winding river, punctuated by coursing rapids.

“Do we follow the White River?” The questions served to distract Äelberon from the painful drain of both fever and injuries. 

“Yes.” Jyta nodded, her eyes still on the road. “Largest in Skyrim.” 

“Beautiful.” Aye, even in the rain, he could admire the river’s grandness.

“At the riverbank, we stop to pray, yes?” Jyta suddenly asked. “At the Stones? We should give thanks.”

“Aye.” Ralof nodded.

“Pray? Stones?”

“Enough questions, Knife Ears, you’ll learn soon enough.” _Shit._ Now he had only the pain to think on. Äelberon took a deep breath, as deep of one as his side would allow and focused on his steps. Like a clumsier giant version of Phynaster. One big foot in front of the other, keeping strength in his stride, keeping the rhythm, so he would not fall over and never get back up again.

***

A hand on his shoulder stopped him. “Priest, we pray now.”

 _Already?_ He had been so focused on his steps that he had lost touch of his surroundings and time. Magnus was higher.

They had reached a steep bank along the river, nestled within a rock outcropping and upon its edge rested a carved circular platform, low to the earth, somewhat overgrown with mosses and ferns. Upon the platform, stood three conical pillars of stone, symmetrically placed. Each stone had a distinct carving, and he recognized the images. The Constellations. Perhaps a Doomstone of some type, as in Cyrod, he speculated. In addition to featuring a constellation, each pillar was carved with a swirling design, and featured a decorative ring of… He stepped forward to get a better look. _Well damn!_ Was that? Ebony? He blinked; it was. Pure ebony. “Ebony.” He murmured, not seeing the metal since his time in Orsinium.

“The Nord’s metal.” Ralof answered. The Orsimer and Dummer would dispute that, but Äelberon decided to let it go.

“Why the holes at the tips of the columns? Does that have significance? I see constellations, what do they mea—”

“Gods you don’t stop, do you?”

“I can stop.” And, aye, his head tilted to the side in annoyance because once an Altmer, always an Altmer.

“Good, do so.” 

Ralof reverently set his gear down and walked towards the stones. He then knelt on one knee in front of one of the stones. Äelberon saw the Nord’s lips move, uttering words which sounded like the Ten Commands to Äelberon and then a palm was placed upon the stone. “Talos guide me, continue to give me strength.” Ralof took a deep breath. “You next, Jyta.”

Jyta knelt and repeated Ralof’s actions while Ralof stood, grabbing his pack. “We cannot worship Talos in our own fucking land.” He started, facing Äelberon. “The damn Thalmor saw to that with their precious White Gold Concordat, made a mockery of the war we had won. They now seek to weaken us, patrolling the shrines across our Homeland, watching for us to make a mistake, taking people in the night. But we do not need his statue to worship him. He understands. When we pray to these stones, or anything for that matter, can be a fucking piece of cheese for all He cares, when we say the Commands of the Nine, He knows what we really mean.”

“I understand.” Äelberon nodded. He did. His own great clan was not without their own heresies.

“Good.” The Nord leaned against another stone. Of course, it was the Mage that was the victim of Ralof’s casual blasphemy. “Used to play around these as a kid, with Gurdur, Hadvar, Erald, even little Jyta. Then I grew up, putting a child’s folly away for good, and took the time to learn who I really was, a Nord, in Skyrim. I learned what the old ways should mean to us. That it’s Kyne, not fucking Kynareth. That she breathed life into us from His Creation Plan. What these stones really are are the guardian stones, many such stones dot our landscape, but these are the three main ones, the charges over all others. All the stones in our land give blessing, to those born under the right sign. You just need to find the right one, the one that is yours.” He chuckled. “I was not born during Warrior, my time is Lover, but fuck it if I’m going to journey all the way to the bloody Reach for her. Well, maybe one day.” A funny smirk and he poked Jyta’s shoulder. “Jyta, here is Thief, but we don’t hold it against her. _Much_.”

She glared at Ralof as she stood up, but Äelberon could see the humor in her eyes.

“When she touches her stone, it lights right up.” Another chuckle. “For all to see.”

Äelberon’s eyes narrowed. “Really? Like Doomstones then?”

“What the fuck is a Doomstone?”

He was not going to take the time to explain. “It is not important. Does it really light up when she touches it?”

“Jyta, show him.” Ralof grinned.

The Nord lass rolled her eyes, as if she were teased about this many a time and walked right up to the stone with the Thief constellation. She gave it quick pat and Äelberon blinked when the stone lit up with a profound magical energy that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. _Did the Nords not feel that_ , he wondered. 

“Happy?” She raised her eyebrows. “Happy I made the big stone glow for you, Ralof?”

The Nord laughed, goading her. “You know I like watching you touch it.”

“Sure you do. Maybe I’ll use its blessing to shave your eyebrows off while ya sleep!”

Ralof laughed again. “Your risk to take, little _Thief_.”

“Fascinating…” Äelberon murmured, his eyes still on the stone. "Utterly fascinating..." 

“So, Knife Ears, what are you?” It was almost phrased as a challenge and it made him look up. Still leaning against the Mage, Ralof crossed his arms over his chest. “I bet Mage, maybe Apprentice. Or Atronach, eh Knife Ears? Go ahead, see for yourself. At least offer a little prayer that Orial fellow of yours. Thank him for not letting you die to the Dragon fire…” 

“Auri-El.” He corrected.

“Whatever.” The Nord shrugged, beckoning Äelberon to the stone pillars. He approached the stones while Jyta and Ralof exchanged inaudible words, laughing. _When in Skyrim_ … he smirked, poking the Warrior Stone with his extended index finger. He jumped when it released its energy, just as the Thief did for Jyta.

“Ha!” Jyta exclaimed. “I knew it! I knew it!” She turned to Ralof, her eyes dancing with triumph. “See! You owe me ten septims! No one can shoot a bow the way he does and not be Warrior! I wager he’s as good as old Whetted-Blade himself.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Ralof shaking his head. Looking extremely surprised. “He’s a Warrior.” He nodded. “Well met. Though I disagree about Whetted-Blade. None can touch that old Bastard.”

Äelberon said nothing, only looked at the stone, trying his best to hide his profound surprise from the others, not quite understanding what had just happened. He was born on the Ides of First Seed. He was supposed to be born in Rain’s Hand, but there was an accident. His Lenya had fallen from a ladder while reaching for something and Kahlailas of Dusk, a Curate within his Order, had been summoned to save her life. She delivered a month early. The Lord should be his sign and he let people assume that it was whenever they learned his birthday, not correcting them.

Only the Lord did not grace the sky that night.

 _The most blessed, and the most cursed_ , he frowned. The Wandering Unstar.

The Serpent.

He remembered the looks of silent terror on his parents’ faces as they sat outside their home, his angry confusion when he finally learned the truth, the great brow of the Curate furrowing. It was the day the Thalmor came to investigate his spell, the Magnus that came from his hands. And the law was brutally clear in his Blessed Isles. Serpents… were to be killed at birth. Thrown over a cliff, poisoned, or smothered, it did not matter. Only they could not bear to do it. It was the one lie his parents ever told him and he understood why it was done. He was their only child, they loved him and there would be no others, the damage from her fall unrepairable. So, they waited for Curate Kahlailas to bargain with the Thalmor Justiciar for his life. In a display of mercy that belied the Thalmor’s future, his life was spared, on the condition that he was given immediately to Auri-El to be his servant, to the end of his days. A social experiment to see whether Altmeri Nurture could trump the Nature of Nirn. It was extremely generous of the Thalmor. The Thalmor of the fourth era would not have offered them such clemency, all three would have been killed, or at the very least, declared Apraxic and exiled.

_Who are ya foolin’, Old Mer, that’s exactly what happened anyway._

He shook his head, clearing his mind of their dark thoughts. The Warrior had given Äelberon his boon and he admitted, he felt little rejuvenated, like an ember of his former fire had returned. Such a gift was worth a measure of reverence in return, and just as Ralof and Jyta did before him, he knelt and prayed, reciting an almost sacrilegiously abridged version of his Holy Tenets. The Nords would not wait on the full version. They were already letting him worship his way, in a surprising show of tolerance.

“Suna ye sunnabe.” He finished quietly, his hand lingering on the stone. “It means,” he started. _Aye, one small lesson from this old priest, younglings_. “‘Bless and blessed be’ in one of the tongues of my ancestors. To both bestow and receive blessing. There was a time when my People were not so unkind...” He let his voice trail off, keenly aware of the falling rain. Like tears sometimes to him. 

“Äelberon of Dusk.”

Äelberon’s eyes refocused at the sound of his given name and he turned to the Nord, a teasing smirk beginning to find his features. _Aye, you impress me too, Ralof_. “Not Knife Ears?”

Ralof approached, putting a hand on his shoulder, though his eyes were on the stone that was still glowing with energy. His expression grew thoughtful and he then looked Äelberon right in the eye. “No, I do not call a warrior by anything else other than his given name.” With a friendly pat on his shoulder, Ralof turned away from the stones to again follow the road. “Let’s go. Riverwood is close. And I don’t care if we’re a trio of Hagraven necromancers at this point, we still need to warn them about this beast.”

Äelberon stood, adjusted his bindle, and followed, looking over his shoulder a final time at the stone.


	5. The Mission

Balgruuf’s eyes lingered on the small village icon that represented Helgen on the parchment map in Farengar’s study. ‘Twas a finely drawn map, mounted on an ornately carved wooden screen, with many details other than towns and cities; hold borders, roads, places of interest, ruins. A scholars map, sort of there to show off, Balgruuf guessed. The mage’s study was crammed full of such things; piles of scrolls, shelves of books, bottles of who knew what, soul gems, shelves of alchemy ingredients and jars of animal parts preserved in alcohol and alphabetized. It was a part of his palace that made him rather uncomfortable, for all of its magical energy, but it had more chairs than his war room and Farengar wanted to be in this room to discuss his “theories” on their current situation, because the Nord mage had diagrams to display. It was better, always, in his long experience as Jarl, to accommodate the mage. He could handle any of his guards in combat, possibly Irileth too, but damned if he could shake off one of Farengar Secret-Fire’s fireballs.

“Helgen…” He said quietly.

“My Jarl?”

Irileth.

The Jarl grunted in response, not ready to answer his Dunmer Housecarl quite yet. He was trying to think. “Do we know for sure what happened in Helgen?” He finally uttered, still studying the map.

“We can’t be certain.”

“A dragon is certain enough for me, Avenicci.” Irileth shot back. “We will need to see to our defenses.”

“We don’t even know it is a dragon. I still say we wait. Wait for real news to come in, not hearsay and frightened gossip.”

The two sides of Jarl Balgruuf’s coin. Action and inaction. Irileth and Proventus Avenicci, Housecarl and Steward. Staying between them helped him plan what he felt was the correct course of action for the people of Whiterun. It helped him stay neutral and keep his hold relatively prosperous during this dark time of Civil War. Helgen was in Falkreath, and what young Siddgeir did in Falkreath was his own damn business. He disliked the self-serving little shit since he made his auspicious debut as Jarl, in a move that shocked the entire gathered moot. Worst thing Dengeir ever did was hire that Witch Elf as his steward, Balgruuf was sure she had something to do with Dengeir’s fall. _Our land is a mess right now and that is exactly what they bloody want_ , he scowled.

What he _did_ know were that troops from both sides, including the Thalmor, had been on the move for several days. His finger traced a line from Helgen to Darkwater Crossing. Darkwater Pass, something had happened there. A convergence of forces from what his scouts had told him. There were rumors that Ulfric had finally been captured.

He was both relieved and saddened, part of him even hoping that the news was not true. Relieved that this Civil War could now end, and Skyrim could move on. Dismayed that Stormcloak’s path had led to such ruin.

 _One more moot and you would have been king, old friend_ , Balgruuf sighed. It was true. Torygg was young and while Balgruuf was a reasonable sort, willing to give the new king a chance, his lack of combat experience bothered some of the more veteran jarls. He himself had voted for Ulfric in the moot, putting aside their rivalry for the good of their Homeland. It made sense; the man had paid his dues, proven himself, and he wanted it more than anything. Some people want to be king; some people want to just serve. The Great War, Markarth. Ulfric’s deeds made him ripe for kingship and the thu’um spoke volumes. A leader Nords could rally behind and young enough that he could still be flexible. That he managed to not have Windhelm plunge into chaos despite the continued influx of both Dunmer and Argonian refugees was testament to his skills in keeping Skyrim’s Nords in check. Dunmer and Argonians were not the problem in Balgruuf’s eyes. The real problem was much further south.

Whiterun, Eastmarch, Winterhold, and the Pale voted Ulfric. Hjaalmarch, Haafingar, The Reach, and the Rift voted Torygg. Falkreath was the big surprise. For the first time in many seasons, the proud Dengeir of Stuhn did not come when summoned. The self-serving little shit did. Balgruuf would never forget the smug grin on Siddgeir’s face when he cast his vote.

And Torygg won the day. 

His advice to the angry bear was to bide his time, wait for the young king to either prove himself or make a costly mistake. Even so, Balgruuf was planning a trip to Riften with Ulfric, putting aside their own rivalry yet again, to talk some sense into Law-Giver. If she stopped clinging to Blackbriar’s skirts for a moment and honored the memories of her father and husband, honorable men who died at Red Ring, there could be grounds for another moot, another vote.

Balgruuf blew a gust of air. _He is his name, however, and storms are never patient, they never wait. And here we are. War and now this._

“And your plan, Farengar?”

The mage sat down to take a sip of watered down wine, adjusting the fit in his dark robes before scratching at a mutton chop. He tilted his head to the side and set his goblet down. “I still maintain that if indeed a dragon was sighted—”

“We don’t know that for sure.”

The Jarl raised his hand to stop his steward. “Avennici, let him finish.”

The Imperial made a tiny huff that elicited a low growl from Irileth. Sometimes, it was like having two extra children, Balgruuf sighed, finally pulling himself away from the map to sit down as well. Honthjolf, a guard, one of the few who did not wear the guard’s standard closed helm, stepped just a hair away, to give the Jarl the appropriate space, adjusting the position of his great longbow that was unstrung and by his side.

“You’re fine, son.” He whispered. Honthjolf’s stance relaxed somewhat and a warm brown eye gave the Jarl a look, asking if the distance was fine. He acknowledged the lad with a nod, it was. Who else did Captain Caius bring with him to their meeting? Honthjolf was one of the Captain’s best archers. Came in second place in this year’s tourney, giving the Companions’ Huntress a run for her money. It seemed the Captain brought all his best today. It looked like Torbar, Jurgen, and Lydia based on their heights and body shapes. Balgruuf’s men always prided that he could tell them apart, even with their helms on. Nowhere near all his guards, but this was the group the Captain was going to trust to relay the information learned from today’s meeting.

He studied the room while Farengar spoke of his plan. The latest plan, one of several outlined during this lengthy meeting, consisted of searching Bleak Falls Barrow for an ancient stone tablet. A tablet that showed dragon mounds scattered throughout the land. It was a solid idea, to locate these mounds just in case anything happened. Perhaps join with other holds in destroying them? Or provide the villages and towns near them with a warning system? Bells. He could easily see bells installed in the watchtowers throughout the hold. Sound them when a beast was sighted? He would have to discuss this further with either Eorlund or Adrianne. 

At any rate, searching for this tablet was the best of Farengar’s plans and the mage did well, considering all of his ideas were hastily drawn just after they heard the disturbing news this morning. Unfortunately, all involved risk and deferring precious manpower to Bleak Falls Barrow without a confirmation of a dragon sighting, was asking too much. 

Besides, Ulfric’s capture was also a rumor and until it was an absolute fact, he needed his men working to protect the hold from both the Imperials, the Stormcloaks, the Thalmor, and the bandits that now seized the opportunities of plunder that war caused. White River Watch was a particular thorn in his side, the bandits there particularly ruthless. 

But he would not cave like some of the other Jarls and have Imperial soldiers garrisoned in his Hold. He did not like what it could imply. That he was incapable of solving his own problems. It was not an image he wanted to send to either the Empire or the ever-watchful Aldmeri Dominion.

An extra hand would then be needed to execute Farengar’s plan, perhaps a Goldpact Knight? The Imperial, Ser Decimus Merotim, the Gold Pact leader himself? He was certainly extremely capable and had easily done several private bounties for the Jarl, mostly criminals and bandits. Balgruuf shook his head. Far too expensive and probably, he smirked, not even awake yet. Gold Pact were like the summer flocks of geese that graced the tundra ponds, a flurry of feeding activity and then spending their winters roosting, cooped up in their great fort in Riften.

No, he needed a Winter animal on this, an ice bear or a wolf, which pointed his thoughts in the direction of Jorrvaskr. The Companions. Balgruuf nodded to himself, the Companions. He liked that idea. He could pay Whitemane a visit tomorrow and see if it was a job Skjor would take, maybe Vilkas as well. The young lad had a knack for learning and was studying to be their lore master, and it seemed that the search would need some scholarship to really see it done well based on Farengar’s details. Ruins were full of traps and puzzles. The only problem is that they were also expensive. Hiring both, and possibly their Huntress would be a strain to their dwindling coffers, but the task needed to be done, on that Balgruuf was convinced. If dragons have returned, knowing anything about them would be an advantage. 

It was also personal. Balgruuf wanted to see Kodlak Whitemane. Talk to him. The man had all but disappeared from Whiterun society since early Sun’s Dusk. Old Tilma reassured the Jarl on several occasions when they ran into each other at market that the great warrior was still hale, not sick as the rumors suggested, only very busy with a pressing matter to the Mead Hall, but Balgruuf knew the old woman, she was hiding something. Perhaps the prospect of a grand task such as this would convince the Captain of the _Jorrvaskr_ to venture out of his ship for a breath of fresh air, maybe a game of cards at the Bannered Mare. 

Farengar finished, Balgruuf could tell from all the chairs shifting, the many, yet hidden sighs of relief. He moved his hand from the arm of his chair and gave a gentle push, nudging Vingar Grey-Mane awake. Another reason why he had selected Farengar’s study for this meeting. A comfortable chair for Vignar.

The old Nord’s eyes flew open and he immediately straightened. Vignar leaned closer. “My apologies, my Jarl. Was just closing my eyes, the mage burns something here, an incense and it’s really irri—”

“You were asleep.” Balgruuf whispered.

“A fuck it, you’re right.” Vignar admitted, giving up with a shrug of his thinner shoulders. Vignar had aged noticeably within the last year and Balgruuf had to force himself to not think on the old man’s mortality. “I miss anything?”

“Not really. Though I’m thinking about talking to Whitemane.”

“For Bleak Falls?”

At least the Nord had been paying attention to Farengar. Considering all the talk of ancient relics and magic, Balgruuf was surprised. Vignar Grey-Mane was a Nord’s Nord.

“Aye.”

Vignar frowned. “Well, good luck. Don’t know what’s put the man’s knickers in a twist lately. Been keeping to himself. No jobs coming, save the giant at Palagia’s farm. And you know what happens to warriors when they don’t have something to do, right? They drink, get rowdy. Poor Tilma’s been doing more than her fair share cleaning up after them. So much that I’ve had Brill help her. I may ask Olfina too. I’m sure the girl will step in and help.”

Balgruuf turned to the older Nord. “Is it really that bad?”

The old Nord shook his head. “It’s not that it’s bad,” he scratched his head, a troubled expression on his deeply lined face, “it’s just not Whitemane. I know how he runs the Hall, and this isn’t it.”

“Has he confided in you?”

“No. That’s what’s worrying me, he hasn’t, and he used to come to me for everything, Balgruuf.” Jarl Balgruuf felt Vignar’s hand on his shoulder. “Maybe a visit from you will get the old wolf talking.”

“My Jarl?” Irileth interrupted. “We need to know your course of action.”

Another pat from Vignar and one of his big grins. “Go get ‘em, Balgruuf. I’ll tell Tilma to make some apple dumplings. She’ll be very happy to see you again. Hopefully your Nix-hound will let you come over and play.”

The Jarl smirked at Vignar’s dig and rose from his seat, rubbing his beard. Two out of his three thanes were in attendance and it was clear from Olfrid Battle-Born’s long face that he did not like that the Jarl was favoring Gray-Mane today. At least in his eyes. In truth, Balgruuf didn’t favor one or the other, all of them knew battle and had fought together, all knew Red Ring. The Civil War caused a feud between the two eldest clans of Whiterun, not between them and their Jarl, though he knew his brother Hrongar wanted things different. Younger and hotter in the head, Hrongar wanted a decision made regarding the Civil War and while Balgruuf had been considered impatient in the past, he was more than willing to be patient now.

“For now,” he started, knowing no one would be totally happy with his answer, but that is always the result of steering the middle course and thinking of his people first. “For now, until we know for sure, I request that the city walls be closed to travelers unless they have news of this dragon sighting. Keep our people safe inside. Captain, Caius?”

“Yes, my Jarl.”

“Tomorrow, you are to send an escort to the courier and deliver this news to Rorik of Rorikstead. Advise him to reinforce his village’s defenses and that I will consider augmenting his company of guards. In addition, I want you to see if we can conscript more of the able bodied and have your men take inventory of our weapons, armor, and arrow stores. Tomorrow, I will take a tour of the wall and battlements and see what else can be done to bolster our own defenses.”

“So no one enters or leaves the city?” The Captain asked.

“I want to be reasonable; I understand trade still must be done, but for now, yes. Hopefully, we will hear more soon, and I can revise my decision, consider opening Whiterun to trade and travelers again.”

It was a compromise. Irileth would have wanted the city sealed like some sort of forgotten Ayleid tomb, guarded by an army of guards and many ballistas. Proventus would want him to wait. The compromise did not please any of them, but it would work to protect the people for now.

Captain Caius turned to Honthjolf. “You and Morgen will be stationed at the gate today. Unless they have news, let no one through. Travelers have the Ram’s Head tavern just outside the city if they need a place for the night. Point them there.”

Honthjolf nodded. “Aye, Captain.”

“Dismissed.”

The young lad bowed in respect and left Farengar’s study, followed by the other guards.

“Anything else, my Jarl?” The Captain asked.

Balgruff shook his head slowly, suddenly feeling very tired. Meetings such as this always drained him, and he considered sneaking away to the Bannered Mare later tonight to relax over a pint, maybe see if any of the locals picked up any additional news. Irileth did not like him going, but aye, it was the place for news in his hold. Balgruuf’s eyes found his children, eating their midday meal just outside Farengar’s study in the great hall. It would be time for their afternoon studies soon. A good enough reason to move this meeting along.

“Do we speak with the General? Send word? Something?” Hrongar asked.

“No.”

His brother’s brow lowered. “Oh?”

Balgruuf’s eyes were still on his children. “I do not need General Tullius to solve my problems, Brother.”

“And what of Bleak Falls, my Jarl?” Farengar asked.

“I think it’s time I paid the _Jorrvaskr_ a visit tomorrow.”

“Not the Gold Pact?” asked Battle-Born.

“Those milk-drinkers are probably tucked away in their warm little beds already, by my reckoning.” Quipped Vignar.

“I would not call them milk-drinkers.” Cautioned Balgruuf. “Ser Merotim has done service to us in the past, but Vignar makes a valid point, Olfrid. Besides, why send word all the way to the Eastern Rift, when we have capable warriors already here. I will speak with Kodlak Whitemane about hiring the Companions to retrieve the stone tablet. I’m thinking at least Skjor and Vilkas, but possibly the Huntress as well.”

The Wizard’s features pinched with disapproval. “It is a task that requires more than brute strength, my Jarl. As capable as they are, a different sort of intelligence and knowledge of Nordic ruins, puzzles, and of the undead would be prefer—"

“You want to go?” The Jarl snapped, beginning to lose his patience.

“Well, my Jarl, may place is here, drawing up attack scenarios.”

Balgruuf had a hard time deciding if Farengar was frightened to go or really thought he was supposed to draw up attack scenarios.

“There is also the matter of the coffers.” Of course, Avenicci would bring up money. “You want to conscript new guards, close the city to travelers and trade, and spend on hiring the Companions? The food stores are low enough as it is. I am not sure we have the mon—”

“My word stands. It is your job to find the coin, Proventus.” Jarl Balgruuf interrupted again.

Of course, all of what they said was true, but he was tired. He had been thinking on this matter since late morning and he felt a dull, throbbing headache beginning to form just behind his forehead. Aye, unless someone with the needed skills happened to walk right through their bloody door who was willing or desperate to work for cheap, they would have to spend the money. In general, there was a shortage of _independent_ mercenaries in Skyrim, Belrand of Solitude, Stenvarr of Windhelm, and Vorstag of Markarth were the only ones he could recall off the top of his head. They were seasoned men who would see the job done well and done for less, but they already had their base cities and tended to not stray too far from them. Otherwise, most mercenaries either joined the Gold Pact or the Companions or left for the greener pastures of other provinces when the two groups starved them of jobs. It was a large reason why the Fighter’s Guild could never secure a solid foothold in Skyrim since the second era.

“This meeting is adjourned. All are dismissed. You know your tasks,” he set his jaw, “now do them.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Hrongar shoot a frustrated glance at Avenicci before bowing. “I will take my leave then, my brother.” He knew Hrongar was trying to convince Avenicci to convince him to commit to some sort of decision on the Civil War, but now was not the time. Hrongar was followed by Battle-Born and Gray-Mane who paused from his exit to smile, clasping his hand to Balgruuf’s arm.

“It’ll be good to see you in the Mead Hall again, Balgruuf.”

“Let us see what fate brings us.” Balgruuf replied, clasping the old Nord’s arm in return.. 

***

Äelberon stood at the doorway to Dragonsreach and waited, keeping his breath steady, trying to ignore the near-constant pain. His right hand was at his side, the long fingers spreading instinctively. The tiny movement was rewarded by the softness of dense fur, the curve of his boy’s ear, begging for another rub, and he obliged. The husky pressed his head against Äelberon’s thigh and the Elf held the dog’s head there for a moment, close to him. A contented sigh escaped from his boy.

_Aye, I am content too, my little one._

He knew deep in his being that it was his Koor who had given him the strength to push forward to Whiterun so he could deliver their request for aid. The villagers of Riverwood, especially the smith’s daughter, Dorthe, deserved at least that much for reuniting them when Äelberon had given up hope after the horror of Helgen. She had found the animal, gave him water, food, and a warm place to sleep by her father’s forge.

“I will go in.” Ysolda spoke up, stopping at the imposing carved double doors to Dragonsreach, a large Nordic palace perched atop the hill of Whiterun City. “Let them know you have news. I sell flowers there all the time to the Jarl’s servants, they will let me approach.”

“Thank you,” he managed a smile. “Flower maiden.”

“No, thank you, Sir Knight.”

Wrong title, but the Altmer ignored it. Nords did not know Altmeri titles and she seemed to be stuck on calling him a knight, even though she did not really know him. _It’s the noble brow and hawk nose, Old Mer, it must scream ‘knight’ to these people. Also doesn’t help that you gave her all your pretty Third Era speak._

He watched the Nord maiden disappear into the palace and waited outside, liking the icy snap of the air against his burning skin. It was after dark and flashes of lightning on the Eastern horizon heralded a storm. Curious, he tried to use the light from the flashes to test Ralof’s assertion about Bleak Falls Barrow, but the pounding of his head made him stop his search for the Nordic ruin.

When the guard that escorted him through the city’s gates did not want to further abandon his post, Ysolda was quickly commandeered to see Äelberon the rest of the way to the palace with his news. Probably one of the guard’s close friends and someone that could be trusted. The escort then morphed into a brief tour of the city from a young woman who perhaps talked too much for Äelberon’s current ability to concentrate, but did everything with an enthusiasm that he admitted was almost as helpful to him getting through this grueling day as Koor’s presence was.

He had made it and Riverwood would be safe, he sighed, allowing himself some rest, letting his mind replay the events of earlier today to see if he could figure out something new. The dragon, the destruction. He had not experienced something so devastating since Red Ring, though the type of destruction better matched that of the Great Anguish or the Purge of Dusk. People frozen on the streets, screaming, covered in black soot, faces melted off, blood everywhere. He blinked, trying to remove the horrible images from his mind, but it was impossible. He could even still smell it, the stink of burning flesh. No weapon seemed to hurt it and his ward had nearly failed. An unstoppable monster.

After hugging her brother in relief, tears shed by both, Gerdur took their news of the dragon as calmly as she could, though she immediately walked briskly to the smith’s forge and involved him. They both then disappeared into the inn for some time, emerging later with a petite blonde Breton woman, the publican of the inn, Äelberon had presumed.

 _Publican my big fat white arse_ , he recalled now with a knowing smile, his body already really wanting to sit down, but he knew that such an action would make him look a damn fool to the guards by the door, or worse, he would not be able to get back up. So, he opted instead to lean against one of the support beams of the beautifully intricate wooden moat bridge they crossed to reach Dragonsreach’s entrance and rest his eyes. Koor’s head found his thigh again with a demanding snort and his hand found his husky’s head.

“Alright, more ear rubbing…” He murmured. “Such a snowberry…” Another snort and he chuckled, which set him coughing. He could feel the eyes of the guards on him while he succumbed to the fit, heard them step away, closer to the doors, probably thinking he carried a pestilence. It was his fifth fit since arriving at Whiterun. He worked through it, rubbing his chest, trying his best to suppress the cough. It passed, leaving him weak, and short of breath. He drew the threadbare cloak tighter around him and pulled the hood lower over his eyes, his other hand still on his boy. 

_What you wouldn’t give for a good strong smoke and a hot cup of tea right now, Old Mer..._

The Breton was far too smart, quickly dismissing the smith’s--Alvor’s idea that Ralof go to Whiterun.

“They are Stormcloaks, their armor says it all. City will kill them on sight and Riverwood won’t be heard.”

For a moment Ralof and Jyta looked as if they would consider fighting their way out of the village for their freedom, but the Breton’s hard features then softened. “But let them go, they deserve that at least for giving us this news. Dragons… I’ll be damned.” She turned to Ralof and Jyta. “Gerdur, call your husband to get these two geared up with fresh supplies.”

“Good seeing you again, Delphine.” Ralof smiled. “Missed the ale.”

“You too, Ralof.” She acknowledged. “Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to send a few bottles along with you. Thank you for coming to us, you didn’t have to.”

“It was our duty.”

“I know.”

And just like that, Ralof and Jyta were ushered by another Nord towards a house to the south, the small village briefly forgetting Skyrim’s Civil War in their gratitude.

But he was not allowed to leave.

It was always difficult for him initially in a new place. Äelberon had to work, especially since the Great War, twice as hard to earn anyone’s trust. Humans saw the height, the eyes, the ears and they remembered. He understood, the Thalmor’s Alinor had a lot to answer for and people always feel most keenly the last war fought, sometimes forgetting the full history in the process.

The Breton then approached him and their eyes locked. Her light blue eyes widened, almost imperceptibly and Äelberon could detect her uneasiness, the fine lines in her forehead creasing, as if trying to decide something. 

She then broke her glare to face Alvor and Gerdur. “I want to speak with him… _alone_.”

“Are we sending him then?” The smith had asked. “He’s dressed like one, but he’s no Stormcloak.”

“Maybe he’s something else.” Gerdur frowned.

Äelberon was already beginning to prepare his ‘I am not a Thalmor’ argument, but something in his gut told him to shut his mouth.

“Don’t be silly, woman. You think your brother would be traveling with him otherwise?”

Before Gerdur could speak, the Breton raised her hand to stop them. “That’s enough.” Her eyes narrowed as she gave him a once over. “We don’t know what he is. His kind isn’t common here. In the meantime, get everyone gathered. We’ll meet about sending word to the Jarl. Sleeping Giant in about two hours, alright with both of you?”

“As good a place as any.” The smith answered, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Excellent, don’t forget to tell Faendal and Lucan. I think they’re still cleaning up the shop after what happened yesterday.”

Alvor and Gerdur went back to their jobs and to spread the word about the village meeting. The Breton gestured that they move towards the mill, towards the noise of the rushing water.

They sat at a large stump in the lumber yard, behind the mill, away from everyone’s line of sight. There was quiet between them for several moments. She demurely fiddled with her skirts, her head down. His hand, he didn’t know why, was tensing, wanting to reach for his gladius.

Without warning, like a viper, she then turned quickly to face him, a blur of golden metal with a distinct purple braiding in the hilt, slid under his throat. Not cutting yet, but all she had to do was slide and it would be done. His eyes traveled around, searching for anyone, but the place had been well-selected. They were alone. Äelberon relaxed his sword hand and let it fall where she could see it, knowing he had no chance against her physically, so he used the one weapon he had left.

“Hid that under your skirts, eh?” He started, breaking the silence. “Should have seen that coming.” A sigh escaped his lips. “Well, it’s been a day…A fine piece, your dagger. Not so easily earned.”

“He died as well as your people can die.” She hissed, her hand tightening around the hilt of her weapon.

She did not need the katana or the plated Akaviri armor to tell him who she was, or rather, once was. Her skill at taking him by surprise and the Thalmor dagger said it all because for a human to even _possess_ such a blade meant only one thing. That she had killed the bastard Justiciar that owned it herself and there were few in the world who could go toe to toe against a Justiciar who had achieved the rank to have earned that weapon.

The Breton was a Blade.

“Then what is holding you back, Blade?” He asked. “All the Blades I ever knew killed without hesitation. I know, I have had to defend myself. Some of the best fighters in Tamriel.” 

“Murderer…” she hissed, pressing the blade against his skin and he felt a bit of blood.

“I never said I killed them.”

“Who sent you?”

More questions, but she was not immediately killing him. Something was stopping her. His eyes left the water and he tried to make eye contact with her but the dagger at his throat was making it rather difficult. 

“Who sent you?” She repeated and he could now smell the sweat of her worry.

It then dawned on Äelberon. She cared two shits about herself. Cared two shits about him. She had, however, grown attached to the people in this village and a throat slashing in a lumber yard in broad daylight would mean… Well it would mean what it would mean for him. It was clear by how quickly she responded to Gerdur and Alvor, the fairness she showed Ralof and Jyta, the smile she flashed young Dorthe. Just as he had grown attached to the people of Bruma. Unless one was a total monster, even the most hardened and scarred people, the most desperate fugitives, could still form attachments. He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“If they are good people,” he started, picking his words carefully, “takes time, but they sort of grow on you, don’t they, Blade? Gradually chip away at the stone wall you build so high around your heart when you live a life on the run. I almost bought a house in Bruma once.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” She growled through gritted teeth.

“Aye, almost bought a house.” He continued, undaunted by the increased pressure of her blade on his throat. “A nice one, a whole two stories, fine kitchen though I do not really cook, but I love eating. A library for all my scrolls and books and I am a mage, there are—were angaids, all over the floor, a virtual sea of them. Three doors down from the Tap ‘n Tack, near the Fighter’s Guild and the Mage’s Guild because I had friends in both places. Friends, Blade. I had friends, not a lot, but a few. And I was ready to stop running. After almost one hundred years, ready to finally fucking stop.” He closed his eyes, hoping his words would reach her. “But they always find a way, don’t they, Blade? _They_ never stop, like bloody hounds that have scented the poor fox, relentless they are. And smart, so, so fucking smart that you can scarcely breathe, barely sleep. So you just keep running, never looking back. Hoping, praying that one day, you can stop running forever. I have been there, Blade.”

The dagger moved away from his neck and both of them released a ragged breath.

“Who are you?” She asked, her eyes narrowing.

He faced her, his hands still up in surrender.

“Someone who understands you, Blade.”

“I still don’t trust you.” The dagger threatened again. “Who are you?”

Äelberon chuckled at that. “I do not blame you, not with these knife ears.” He began to unfasten his jerkin slowly, carefully, letting her see both his hands while he worked the leather buckles and fastenings.

“What the Oblivion are you doing now?”

“Giving you the proof you need, Blade. Showing you who I am.”

It was not the first time showing the scars had saved his life.

“By the Nine…” she had gasped, her eyes on his bare back, her fingers very lightly tracing one of the older clusters on his shoulder. “So many.” She murmured, now understanding who he was. “You’ve survived so many.” 

“Aye. So many...”

He was then led, not to Gerdur’s house, but to the Sleeping Giant Inn. Delphine’s Restoration magicks were not strong enough to stay the poison, the infection in his lungs, or the festering of his lashes, nor was he strong enough to steal from her to heal himself. So he reckoned she used the inn’s entire supply of frost mirium to concoct a salve that would soothe his back and maybe control the fever just enough for him to do the job she needed him to do. Then the former Blade proceeded to tend to his many wounds herself, cleaning them, coating them in the salve and then giving him an effective field dressing that spoke volumes of her time spent both in combat and on the run.

They then redid his jerkin, removed a strap here, moved another there until it resembled something far less "Stormcloak" and it was her turn to be surprised at how adept he was at crafting himself a disguise. They spoke casually about their time on the run while they worked, no other names named, no other locations given, save one. He could not help it. She was the first Blade he had seen since 185. He needed to know, so he asked about him. She knew about as much as the Blade from 185 did, and refused to say the name openly, but she thanked Äelberon for his service in the Great War against the machinations of Vaermina and Lord Naafarin, for doing his part to help her fellow Blade secure the safety of the Emperor.

Afterwards, Ordnar served him a decent meal of sliced meats, some bread and fresh water, but he could not hold down the food. Water, however, was welcomed and he was allowed some precious time to rest, Koor by his side, in one of the rooms while she attended the village meeting at the Sleeping Giant’s Hearth. Sleep eluded him, but the time to breathe was appreciated. He was brought out later to give his account of the events at Helgen and it was officially decided that he would go to deliver the message to Jarl Balgruuf the Greater.

“The cloak is good, we’ll keep that. The gambeson is done, far too bloody. I’ll throw it out.” Delphine had mused later, when the others had left, eyeing his meager possessions while he slipped the jerkin over a fresh woolen shirt provided by Ordnar. “You don’t smell quite so much like blood and pus now so maybe they’ll keep their focus on the dragon and not on you. You redid your hair too, good. The less messy you look, the better. The gladius and the bow will work as well, we’ll keep them for now.” She crossed her arms over her chest, thinking. “They’ll think you’re maybe a hired scout working for the Empire.”

“A scout that got marauded by bloody bandits.” He was not beyond joking himself.

The Breton chortled. “Aye, either that or attacked by a dragon, which is the truth, but if it gets you inside to warn the Jarl, I don’t care if they think you’re a damn funny man…” 

“They may well think that with the news I am about to bring.” 

“True.” She finished fastening his jerkin when his shaking hands could no longer work the fastenings and threw the cloak over his back, pulling the hood far over his eyes. “With it over your eyes, and if you don’t speak so posh, they may think you’re a Nord. Can you do their accent?”

“Delphine, it is against my Order to lie—”

“You can say your tenets, later, Knight-Paladin.”

“You know about that?”

“Of course, we were fucking good at our jobs. We made it a point to know their enemies. Your bounty is higher than a Blade’s, higher than mine, and that’s rare in their world.” She gave him a small, bitter smile, her eyes going far away while she remembered who she once was. “You’re kind of a legend, Äelberon of Dusk. One of those secret, small legends that only a few know. Our loremaster, knew. He admired you and now I can see why. Most Aprax die within their first year.”

“Do they know?” He asked, his eyes on the door of the inn. “About you?”

She turned away. “No, not even Ordnar. They don’t, and I’d like to keep it that way. You were right, Dusken.”

“About what?”

“The attachment. I just wish it wasn’t that way. It would have been easier. I spent too much time here and it’s happened. I can’t change it.”

“It is natural to not want the loneliness, Delphine, but to run is to be alone. For many years I have known this. Any respite, however brief, is welcomed.”

“Bruma?”

“Aye. And one day, you will have to leave Riverwood, just like I had to leave Bruma, our eyes always on the road, upon every shadow...” His expression became thoughtful and he smiled at her. “But for now, enjoy the respite, Delphine the Publican, your secret is safe with me.”

“As is yours, Dusken.”

“Hope your numbers are better than mine.” He offered, his smile morphing into something more awkward and he shrugged. “I think I’m bloody it for my Order.”

“Shame. It was great in its day.” The Blade was so tiny that even with him sitting, he was still taller, but he quite admired her strength. She must have been very talented to have been recruited by the Blades at such a young age. Delphine cleared her throat and focused herself. “So, now that that’s out of the way, give me your best Nord accent.”

“By Shor’s Hairy Nut Sacks…” He grinned.

Delphine laughed, shaking her head. “You are so dead, Dusken.”

He gave her a look that suddenly sucked all the humor from the small room.

“I know.”

She bit her lip, a resigned sadness flashing over her features, understanding what he had meant by that.

“One last mission, Dusken, and then you can stop running forever...”

***

He blinked when he felt a cool hand on his shoulder and then heard a gasp, feeling the hand pull away quickly.

“Sir Knight?”

Ysolda. 

He had no idea how long she had been standing there watching him.

“Was I asleep?”

_You are really fucked when you don’t even know yourself, Old Mer._

“No, just very still, looking to the horizon. I thought for a moment that you were, well...”

“Dead?”

“Aye, actually. You were so still. And then you just blinked.” She giggled, covering her mouth. “You scared me, made me jump. I am sorry it took so long. The palace is on edge, but they’ll see you.” 

He immediately straightened, leaving the support beam to walk towards the doors. It was clear from her worried expression that she was beginning to comprehend his deteriorating physical condition and he saw her clutch her flower basket a little tighter. “You will go to the temple after you tell them, yes? Danica, she can help you.”

_Nothing is helping this old body now, lass._

He smiled and gestured to the door with his head, remembering himself. “This first. It is far more important than an Old Mer’s nagging cough.”

Ysolda bent her head, her brow furrowing while she fingered a flower in her basket, delicate, light blue, and he wondered if maybe it was a source for a dye they used. Matched the shade of her dress almost exactly. He stopped his crazy mind before it went too far one of its unimportant Altmeri tangents.

“Is it true?” She suddenly asked. “The dragon?”

His expression sobered and his eyes found the building storm clouds to the east, watched the lightning. “Aye.” He nodded. “It is.”

She took the flower and held it towards him, making him turn to face her again. “You could have run away.”

“It was my duty to bring the news to Whiterun. My mission.”

“Take this then, Sir Knight. For your service.”

It was a simple gesture from one who was poor, but it was appreciated. Äelberon took the flower and brought it to his nose. Crisp and light, like a fresh spring morning. “Now that is the nicest thing I have smelled all day, lass.” He nodded in approval, tucking the flower within his jerkin. “Thank you.” He gave her a small bow in gratitude.

He cradled his animal’s head against his thigh and swallowed hard, finding what he was about to do next a bit harder than he expected. “Do me a favor, Ysolda?”

“Of course.”

“Can you watch this little snowberry while I am inside the palace? Sit with him? He will not run off, he is far too good for that, but he is in an unfamiliar place.”

_Time for you to make new friends, my little one…_

The smith’s young daughter in Riverwood, Dorthe, and now Ysolda. Perhaps maybe even Delphine if she was so inclined to have a fine working dog at her side. Koor would not be alone and he was young, given time, he would recover from the loss.

“Of course.” She smiled, giving the husky a friendly pat before taking a seat at the palace’s steps, not understanding what Äelberon was really asking. Koor’s tongue lolled and he licked Ysolda’s fingers for a moment before switching to headbutt Äelberon’s thigh, demanding even more affection from his Master. He gave the animal an ear rub and then brought his hand under the muzzle, lifting it so they could make eye contact.

“Be good, eh boy?” He smiled, giving the dog’s muzzle a wee scratch, though he knew his voice came out strained by his race’s standards, the wave of emotion hitting a little stronger than he expected. 

“Love you.”

With that, he opened wide the double doors to Dragonsreach and entered.

***

Koor and Ysolda were waiting for him outside, their breath visible in the night air. Äelberon heard the sounds of thunder and looked at the sky. The storm was getting closer, ominous. With a grunt, he sat at the steps, next to the Nord lass, covering his mouth to cough. She put her hand on his shoulder to steady him during the fit. Another hand brought a cloth to his mouth. He tried to push it away, not wanting to make it dirty with the blood that was coming up, but she was a persistent one.

“It’s okay.” She soothed. 

“Thank you, Ysolda.” Äelberon managed when his coughing finally died down. He cleared his throat and wipe his mouth with the cloth, taking time to just breathe for a few moments, drying his eyes and cheeks of the tears. He must look a dreadful sight to her, beyond filthy. “Took longer than I expected.” He finally continued, shaking his head to clear it. He groaned, shaking his head only made it worse. “Sorry to make you wait in the cold.”

“I’m a Nord, this isn’t cold.” Already his boy had moved his head from Ysolda’s lap to his. “He missed you.”

“Was he good?”

_Of course he bloody was._

She nodded, giving Koor a friendly pat on the head. “He’s a fine animal.”

“The best.”

“What did they say?”

He reached for a pouch attached to the belt of his jerkin and opened it. 

“Hold out your hand, Flower Maiden.” 

All ladies like shiny things, since the beginning of bloody time, so he could not help the grin when she let out a tiny squeal of delight upon seeing the amethyst land in her palm, her amber eyes lighting up at its beauty. 

“A gift, for my initiative. And…” He just started laughing because fuck it all, why not?

“What’s so funny?”

“I have a job.”

“A job?” She raised her eyebrows, looking at him like he was utterly bonkers. It was not the first time he had been given that look.

“Keep it safe for a wee bit, eh?.” He closed her hand over the gem. “I am really thirsty. Did a lot of talking in there. Sometimes,” Äelberon started to explain, “I cannot help myself.” He nodded and he knew he was sporting a silly half-smile and his voice was almost breathless from the high of what he had just accomplished in there. And it was a high. He, yet again, overcame his knife ears, the slant of his eyes, who they initially thought he was, and as bedraggled and half dead as he was in his shit armor, wielding his shit weapons, they could not ignore the over two years of undead experience had just walked into Dragonsreach, with the brains of the Crystal Tower to match. Their court mage had been particularly impressed to speak to someone who had delved into nearly everything in Tamriel from Akaviri ruins to the Dunes of Anequina and the walking trees of Valenwood. He took a deep breath, trying to quell both his anxiety that he had perhaps gone too far in his promise to the Jarl and his excitement, only to start coughing again. “Altmer, lass,” he croaked between coughs, “tend to talk far too much. They were pretty impressed and now I have a job.”

Äelberon removed a waterskin from the bindle that had stayed by Koor’s side while he was in the palace. He took a long drink, but nothing would help this time and it took a long while to quell the cough. He watched her hold the stone to the light of the brazier’s fire as he wiped his mouth of blood and stored the waterskin back in the bindle.

“This will fetch coin. It’s a good stone, clear, well-colored.” She murmured, handing it back to him. “What kind of job?”

He chuckled, still trying to figure out what the Oblivion he had gotten himself into, and he pointed southeast. “Bleak Falls Barrow. I am to retrieve a stone for the Court Wizard. A tablet etched with a map of Dragon burial sites. It is a sound plan to know where they are, I admit, though I am still unclear as to why the interest in the mounds. I only saw one dragon in Helgen. If a dragon is buried in a mound, surely it is long dead? I do not think the Wizard knows either. Says he needs to do more research, which, to be honest, I would love to help him with. It is all so new and exciting in a way--” 

“But you’re—” Ysolda shook her head in disbelief.

“Sick? Dying?” He finished her thought, tucking the amethyst away in its pouch before storing that too in his bindle. “I know. My time has finally come, Ysolda. My final mission complete. I can rest, and rest well knowing that Riverwood will have the aid it needs. It took so much for me to even be here, coming from Helgen and then Riverwood. I am dying and I think you suspected when you first saw me.”

She nodded slowly. “There was an urgency to you, Sir Knight. Like you were running out of time.” 

“Aye. So many years old and now I am out of it.” Äelberon sighed, feeling her hand squeeze his gloved one. “You have shown me great kindness, Ysolda, sitting here with me.” He squared his jaw and faced her, the youngling Ysolda, seeing the puzzlement in her clear amber eyes. No Urag, no Decimus, no Bumph. It now fell upon this poor lass to be his confidant in the end, to hear a Knight-Paladin’s final confession. “I am dying, yes. And yet I still cling. Like that stubborn last leaf, shaking from Winter’s brutal wind, that just refuses to fall. I promised them I would find the Dragonstone. I promised and my word has always been true.” Another sigh and he keenly felt the profound sadness of an unfulfilled life weighing on his shoulders, the memories of hundreds of years blurring together in a jumbled mess, his many successes and his many brutal failures. The sudden weight caused his head to bend, his hand rubbing his forehead.

“Maybe…” he continued, squeezing his brow to relieve the intense pressure. “Maybe, I just wanted to pretend for a little longer that I would wake up tomorrow.” Äelberon turned his head, searching the girl’s eyes for an answer and did not like that they were beginning to mist over. _Don’t spread your sorrow, Old Mer. She’s too young for your bullshit._ “I’m sorry, I am not well. And you have been far too kind to listen to my madness.”

“You’re not mad. It’s the dragon. It changes everything.”

“Ysolda. I was on the block at Helgen” He explained. 

She shook her head in disbelief, leaning closer to him. “I don’t believe that. There must have been a mistake. No true criminal would have done what you did today.” 

Äelberon raised his eyebrows. “Nevertheless, the axe, child, was going to fall.” 

He closed his eyes, resting his elbows on his knees and let his shoulders stoop while he prayed, letting out a growl of frustration against the god of his Order. “Why am I here? Why dangle the Barrow before me? Why put me in the very land where you know _he_ is? Why get me so far only for me to fall? Why tease a future when you know there is none for me now?”

He felt her cool hand on his burning shoulder and she whispered in his ear. “Who are you talking to? There’s no one else here. It is the sickness, Sir Knight.”

“Where do I go from here?” Äelberon asked after a few moments, only half listening to her encouragement, her assertions that it would be alright. He had been so ready at the block. So ready to die.

“Sir Knight, you should really go to the Temple. See Danica.” She took his hand, “Gods, so hot, even through the glove.” She pulled at him, urging him to rise. “I’ll lead you there myself. She can help you, Ser Knight. Make your last days more comfort—”

“I do not want to die in a temple sick bed, youngling.” He suddenly snarled, like a desperate animal, feeling his nostrils flare and his eyes blaze. And it hit him, just then, what the root of his deep despair truly was. It had absolutely nothing to do with dying, it was _how_ he wanted to spend his final moments. Not in a bed, not comfortable, all propped by pillows, being spoon fed broth while his body slowly gave, waiting for his heart to stop. Not feeble and weak. He wanted to die the right way, for him.

 _Aye, Auri-El, I decide. I decide where I fucking die_.

At first, Ysolda looked taken aback by his angry words, but then she gave his hand a squeeze and nodded, understanding what he really wanted. Orcs and Nords, almost the bloody same, deep down. The Nord then stood, setting her jaw, and pointed to the southwest of the palace, towards the large upside-down boat and Äelberon felt a smirk fast approaching.

“Then go there, Sir Knight.”

He laughed gruffly, rather enjoying the irony of where his old carcass was going to end up and stood, hoisting his bindle over his shoulder to ready himself for one last journey. He acknowledged Ysolda, appreciation in his eyes. “You know what I seek then?”

“Aye, and they will give it to you.”

He gazed at the _Jorrvaskr_ and smiled. “There’s fight in me yet, lass. I may give them trouble. Rock their boat.”

“Good. They could use it.”

Her last words made him furrow his brow with an unspoken question, but he ignored it. “Thank you.” It was softly-spoken, humble and from his heart. 

She did a small courtesy and he was flattered by her formality, feeling the tips of his ears blush pink at the attention. “I take my leave of you then, Sir Knight.”

Ysolda made to leave and Äelberon’s eyes then found his Koor, who, by now, was up as well, wagging his tail in anticipation of them being on the move again. Together. Another pang of grief, but Äelberon shook it off, hardening himself. It needed to be done. “Ysolda!” He called, grateful that she stopped and that the call did not set him coughing again.

“What?” she answered from the lower rung of stone steps.

It was such a big request and he did not know quite how to phrase it. “Tomorrow, lass, would you pay a visit to Jorrvaskr?” His hand fell upon his animal’s head and he felt the husky push against it, wanting attention again. Of course, he obliged. It was sometimes hard to believe that this snowberry who constantly wanted ear rubs and cuddles and kisses could be capable of any violence, but when battle called, Koor answered, his loyalty to his Master without bounds. Äelberon hoped that he would carry that fierceness to the end, maybe finish what he himself could not. _You got it in you to kill the shit, boy?_ he asked, his eyes locking with those great, great sky blue eyes. 

The husky’s unwavering stare gave him his answer. 

Äelberon looked up, facing Ysolda. “His name… is Koor. Would you pick him up, and see that he is--” 

“Cared for?”

“Aye...” 

“You have my word.” 

He nodded in approval. “I know a Nord’s word. Very good.” 

The old Knight then straightened his back, making himself as tall as possible, and gave his snowberry a quick pat on the shoulder, urging him down the steps. 

“Let’s go rock their boat, boy.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Aelberon's husky, Koor, is based on a very, very, very old version of this mod by Elianora. The version is so old that the husky had blue eyes, totally different armor, and no helmet. https://www.nexusmods.com/skyrim/mods/61885/?


	6. The Deathbed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains foul language and a rather violent spar between two warriors.

Skjor picked up his tankard when Njada’s Stonearm back fell against the table, moving it quickly out of the way. The corner of her mouth trickled with blood. 

Heart of a Nord, Skjor smirked as Athis loomed over Stonearm, his dark gray hand still balled in a fist. The Dunmer was certainly learning to brawl like one. Njada quickly bounced back from her position on the table with a solid left hook that knocked Athis back. They didn’t call her Stonearm for nothing. The smaller Dunmer swiftly checked his position, managing not to fall into the hearth fire, though his movements did displace several plates and tankards in the process, scattering the remnants of their evening meal all over Jorrvaskr’s floor. Skjor heard a quiet sigh behind him, watched a wiry, age-spotted hand use a worn dish rag to wipe the accumulated water from the leaking roof. 

“More mead?” She asked, her tone betraying her fatigue.

Skjor turned and faced the old woman, shaking his head. “No, that’ll be all Tilma..”

“Wish they would take it outside. I need to clean up.” 

“It’s raining!” Njada yelled.

Skjor chortled. “Maybe the water will cool you off.” 

“Aye.” Vignar grumbled from his position next to Skjor. “Jarl’s coming tomorrow. Hope they behave. Bunch of fucking animals.” 

“Oh? The Jarl?” Skjor raised an eyebrow. “The old man know?” 

“Told him as soon as I got back from the meeting at Dragonsreach.” 

Skjor smirked. “How _was_ that,” he couldn’t resist putting his hand to his heart and bowing from his chair, “my Thane?”

“I hate you sometimes.” The older Nord sank into his chair and made a face. “How do you think?” 

“Still cannot believe they closed the city.” 

Rumors of a dragon attacking Helgen spread like wildfire all throughout Whiterun. He and Tilma were at the market when they heard from Torbar, one of the guards. The guard was skeptical about it being true, though he seemed to furrow his brow when he saw Honthjolf lead a cloaked figure towards Ysolda. The figure was tall, Skjor had noticed, the Imperial cloak threadbare and muddy from travel. He didn’t give it much thought and proceeded to help Tilma load the weekly food for the Hall onto a small cart. Not a very warrior thing to do, but he didn’t mind helping out once in a while. Besides, he needed the air. No jobs, cooped up in the Mead Hall. It made him restless. He wasn’t at the point of striking blows yet like the others were, but he was very eager for another hunt. 

It wasn’t going to happen now. 

Vignar sipped his mead and rubbed his forehead. “Well, that’s why he’s coming.” the old Nord eyed Skjor’s tankard. “Best you keep sober.” 

“Oh really?” Skjor challenged, picking up his tankard. “Maybe more mead after all, Tilma.”

“Aye.” Vinegar nodded. “A job. Keep that pitcher away from him, woman.” 

She laughed and moved the pitcher away from Skjor. The grizzled veteran of the Great War then pouted which set both Tilma and Vignar laughing “My mead, my mead…don’t make me suffer, Tilma...” he pretended to sob. He changed his face immediately and flashed his wolfish grin, which made the old woman hug him and plant a quick kiss on the top of his bald head and playfully tug at his grey ponytail.

“Eh, woman, careful, that’s all I got! How am I gonna get all the ladies then?” 

She laughed and kissed his head again and he didn’t mind, kinda enjoying the smell of fresh bread and dragon’s tongue that always followed her. It was Tilma, she was basically their mother and considering how his real mother was, Tilma was preferred. 

“Shor knows we could use the coin.” She added, still with an arm around him.

“Aye.” Skjor nodded. He set his tankard down and helped himself to some of Vignar’s eidar cheese. “Better lay off this then. So what’s this job?” He asked, popping a piece of the sharp cheese into his mouth. 

Vignar set his tankard down and broke off a piece of eidar cheese that was on his plate. He tossed it and grinned when a large husky caught it with an eager snap of its jaws. 

“Who’s dog is that?” Skjor asked, mentally beating himself up for not noticing. _The dog is on your blind side and didn’t make a damn noise, like a fucking mouse_. 

“You were in the Training circle with Torvar. Belongs to some fellow just walk in. He’s below with Whitemane and Vilkas.”

Huskies, rarer than the long-legged, wirery-coated hounds that most families kept in Whiterun. The great dogs of the North, working animals that pulled sleds along the ice flats, fought, and hunted with their Northern Nord masters. Almost like a wolf except with white and black markings on the face that framed eyes that were the most beautiful sky blue to Skjor. It was strange to see one so far south, but he knew the fashionable nobles of Cyrodiil often liked keeping them. Far prettier, but they suffered in the heat and suffered from a lack of work. Maybe not in Bruma, Skjor mused. 

“New recruit?” Skjor raised his eyebrow.

“We’ll see, Witch Elf. Tall as fuck. Ugly too.” 

Skjor frowned. “Witch Elf? And they’re all ugly, Vignar.”

“Aye.” Vignar grumbled. “Ain’t seen their kind in Whiterun for a long, long time. Not since after the War with those pretty chests of gold to buy out--nevermind. Hopefully Old Man will have some sense and have Vilkas throw him out the door. We don’t take their kind here. Not them.”

“I don’t believe you. That can’t be an Old Mary.”

“He seemed nice to me.” Tilma chimed in. “Knew about Wuuthrad.”

“Really? See, _not_ an Old Mary.” 

“Aye, was strange.” The old woman mused. “I was sweeping when he asked if it was really the fragments, though I think he called it, hmm, let me think.” She put a finger on her lip for a bit. “Elf-Grinder, that’s what he called it. Really soft-spoken when he asked about seeing Kodlak. Polite.” She deftly dodged a fighting Athis and Njada. “Unlike these two.” she muttered, slapping Njada’s back with her dishrag. Njada yelped in surprise, which gave the Dunmer an opening that resulted in a decent uppercut that made the burly Nord Shield Maiden fall hard on her backside. 

“Still hit like a fucking girl, Athis.” She taunted, blood in her mouth. She spit and a tooth flew out, landing on the wooden floor. “Milk-drinker!”

Tilma’s brow puckered and she mumbled something almost inaudible to Skjor as she started to prattle off into the kitchen. Vignar gently grabbed her forearm, making her stop and lean towards him. “Don’t fret, Brill will help you and Olfina’s coming after her shift at the Mare ends. You’ll have help for the Jarl tomorrow. You’ll make apple dumplings, Aye?” 

She responded to Vignar’s words by kissing the old man’s temple. “Of course, they’re his favorite.” 

Skjor watched her disappear and then turned his attention back to the dog. It was exceedingly well behaved though his keen senses picked up on its uneasiness. The way the brow outlining those sky blue eyes seemed perpetually raised as the animal took in every detail of the Mead Hall, the tense posture as it sat on its haunches. It caught another piece of cheese tossed by Vignar, probably something its owner regularly did with it. It looked well cared for, the teeth especially clean, sharp and bright, despite that it was dirty from travel. Looked maybe close to three years old, a young animal still. 

“So what’s this job?” He asked casually, tempted to break off some cheese from the plate as well. _Let’s see if you can catch two at a time._

Vignar chuckled. “That’s for the jarl to tell you.” 

“Oh come on, you can tell me.” 

“He wants Vilkas on it too, maybe Aela.” 

“Really? All three of us? Must be big for three members of the Circle. Hmm, an archer, a swordsman and a two-hander...” 

“No, the boy he wants on lore. 

“ _Lore_?” 

“You know I’m too old for that shit now. My tomb days long gone. Boy knows just about everything I do.” 

“He’s going to read the enemies to death?”

“Aye, very funny. Look at me laugh. Ha. Ha. Ha. You know, you could stand to read a few books, Skjor. Nothing wrong with lore. Learn your people. Especially with the way these Elves keep trying to snuff our ways out.” Vignar leaned in closer to Skjor, his breath strong with mead and the pungent cheese. “You didn’t hear this from me. Pretend to be surprised when Balgruuf comes tomorrow.” 

Skjor crossed his heart and grinned. “By the Circle.” 

“The barrow. Bleak Falls. Jarl wants it done. A dragonstone may be inside, Farengar needs it.” 

His eyes widened. “Shit, seriously?” 

“Aye.” Vignar replied, breaking off another piece of cheese for the animal.

Now that was a job. 

“How much?” 

They tossed their pieces together and aye, the dog was fast, catching both. 

“Jarl didn’t say. Needs to sort that out with Kodlak, I reckon. Hence why he’s coming, so be on your best behavior, Veteran. Take a bath, sharpen your sword and pay attention. You know the drill. Maybe this visit will fetch us some much needed coin.” 

“Aela, Farkas, and Ria are still out. They’ll bring coin.” Skjor assured.

Vignar shook his head. “This isn’t a giant bounty, Skjor. This is big, as big as the last barrow, when we came for the last fragment.” The old Nord’s face became somber, the twinkle leaving his watering grey eyes. “The one that took from us. Dangerous. I want you coming back.” 

“I came back the last time.” 

“Barely, my brother, barely.” 

As if on cue, Skjor heard two sets of doors open, the outside doors and the ones leading to the Living Quarters. The husky stiffened at attention, but remained sitting, by the outside door, not moving when it opened wide and loudly. It’s head, however, turned towards the door to the Living Quarters, watching the steps, quivering with excitement, but not moving. _You are well trained_ , Skjor observed. 

Aela, Ria and Farkas trudged in, the scrape of their boots on the wooden floor almost painful to his hunt-starved ears and he quickly scanned his Shield-Siblings for any injuries while they were warmly greeted by Njada and Athis, their brawl already forgotten. All the heart beats were steady, strong, though Ria sported a big bruise on her shoulder.That was not a surprise. It was her first giant, probably grazed by its club or she was knocked down. Aela’s bow was unstrung and slung over her shoulder while Farkas’ greatsword rested over his broad shoulders, probably scuffing the pauldrons of his wolf armor. The blade sported the telltale drying blood stains. They were successful, still hale and on that, Skjor was proud. 

From the Living quarters emerged Kodlak, already dressed down for the evening. Vilkas followed, surprisingly still in his armor. Skjor had already stripped for the evening, comfortable in his woolen shirt and trousers, not minding that his belly was bulging over his waistband just a tad, and he could tell that the returning Shield-Siblings were itching to get comfortable too. Finally, appearing last from the steps was Vignar’s mysterious cloaked figure. Ah, the one Honthjolf was leading at the market. A Witch Elf? Nah, Vignar was crazy in the head. That was no fucking Witch Elf, they weren’t fucking built like that. A tall Nord or an Orc maybe. He nodded in approval, they could use a good Orc in their group. They were a fierce people. He had known many in his Legion days... 

The quickly uttered ‘shit’ from Aela made Skjor turn his head, seeing that her eyes were on the husky. 

“He’s here.” Ria whispered in Farkas’ ear, looking worried. “That’s his dog.” 

_Who’s dog?_

Farkas frowned. “I told you, Aela. We should have--” 

“Shut up.” Aela said through gritted teeth, shrugging off her pack and tossing it to the floor. 

“It’s gotta be the reason he’s here.” Farkas insisted.

“We got the coin. It’s his word against ours.” She continued, opening her pack to retrieve that all too familiar pouch.

Her words made Skjor raise his eyebrows and he finally acknowledged to the Huntress that he had been privy to their entire conversation. For a brief moment, she visibly shrank, like a child caught red-handed with their hand on a freshly baked sweet roll, but she then stiffened up, looking ready to fight. His eye again found the cloaked figure, and watched Vilkas lead him towards the door to the training circle, while Kodlak approached Skjor and Vignar. 

The old man perched behind him and there was something off about his face, like he had been spooked by something, or seen a ghost.

“The giant’s dead.” Aela suddenly proclaimed, tossing the coin purse to the table where Skjor and Vignar sat. “We killed it. Here’s the coin from Severio Palagia with his appreciation. Bushels of barley and grain from his stores will arrive by Fredas.” 

Aela had negotiated, Skjor was impressed. 

Kodlak nodded. “Excellent. The coin will do us good. And the food.” 

“ _Aela._ ” Farkas repeated. “Don’t.” 

“Don’t what?” The Harbinger looked confused. 

“Shut up, Farkas.” She turned to the Harbinger. “It’s nothing.”

“That’s not true.” Farkas shot back.

Skjor and Kodlak exchanged glances. “What isn’t true?” 

“ _Nothing_.” The Huntress insisted, her silver eyes growing intense.

“Then what the fuck is he doing here?” Farkas growled, pointing towards Vilkas and the figure.

The husky made to move upon hearing Farkas’ raised voice. 

The cloaked figure raised his gloved hand to stop the animal. 

“Koor. Naroy.” 

Skjor didn’t give two shits that the dog stopped and became like a statue again at the command. All he cared about was the fucking way the spoken ‘r’s were flipped, the pure vowels, and he could feel the heat of anger building in his face. 

He felt Vignar’s breath in his ear again. “Told ya.” 

It _was_ a Witch Elf. The accent very thick and he wasn’t even speaking Tamrielic.

He glared at Kodlak, his expression demanding an explanation. 

The old man’s hand rested on his shoulder and older Nord could clearly sense Skjor’s displeasure. “Training Circle. Come with me.” 

“Are you fucking serious?” 

“Skjor, now.” Kodlak warned, giving his shoulder a squeeze that wasn’t gentle. The old man’s eyes then found Aela and Skjor could see her squirm. “You have business with this Mer, Aela?” He asked. 

“No.” She crossed her arms over her chest and stuck her jaw out in defiance. Now Skjor knew she was lying.

“Farkas doesn’t seem to think so.” Kodlak turned to Ria, hoping to get a straight answer from their newest member. “What happened, Ria?”

A ferocious glare from the Huntress made the young Imperial retreat behind Farkas. Aela would not have killed her, but she would have given her a thrashing. Brawls were common in Jorrvaskr and the young Imperial was more than ready for her first.

“Harbinger? Are you coming?” Vilkas called from the door, giving the figure a once over. “We’re waiting.” 

“Shor’s bones. Pulled in two bloody directions at once. Coming Vilkas.” An angry huff. “All of us, then. Outside. _Now_.” 

The whole pack followed Whitemane outside into the pouring rain, settling down to sit at several tables, covered by wooden awning that they frequently used to observe spars and eat outside when the weather held, or to shelter them when the weather didn’t. A spar, now? It was bloody storming outside, the roof was fucking leaking, but whatever, the old man was captain of this ship, not him. Skjor sat next to Kodlak and impatiently drummed his fingertips on the weathered wood. 

“A witch elf?” He heard Njada as she stood next to Torvar. “Why?”

“Dunno.” Torvar answered, spitting on the ground in disapproval. “Waste of time. Their kind can’t fight.” 

“I know.” 

_They can, just not in any way that is fair_ , Skjor brooded.

Athis was very quiet, leaning against one of the awning’s support beams, arms crossed over his slender chest, his deep red eyes on the training Circle, not participating in the conversation and Skjor briefly wondered what the Dunmer was thinking, because he couldn’t read Elves to save his arse. Skjor hoped he wasn’t thinking that they were speaking against him. Dunmer actually made warriors, House Redoran, the Ashlanders. Though he still had much to learn about being a Companion, no one questioned Athis’ fighting skill in the Mead Hall.

But Witch Elves were different. He knew first hand, saw them ‘fight’ during the Great War, or rather, what they considered fighting. They were a callous, cruel, manipulative people who fought with magicks and thin needle swords, leaving the Bosmer and the cat people in their employ to do most of their heavy lifting, some of the cats so giant they could carry the Witch Elves on their backs. It wasn’t the Nord way, not by a long shot and it was devastating.

“Athis.” He called, getting the Dunmer’s attention. “You showed Njada today, good brawl. A real warrior.” He made sure he was definitely loud enough for the Witch Elf to hear.

The slanted eyes blinked once and the Dunmer gave a subtle nod, acknowledging Skjor’s compliment, but he remained taciturn at the support beam. _You’ll have to talk to the Mer later,_ Skjor sighed. Let him know it’s not him. 

“So,” he turned to Kodlak. “You going to explain this?” 

The older Nord’s eyes were on the training circle, studying the figure, as if he himself wasn’t quite sure what he was going to do on the matter. The removal of the cloak revealed that it was indeed a Witch Elf, taller than any Skjor had expected. The size of one of the Aldmeri Dominion’s Jaguar-men from the war, though maybe not as broad. The skin was white as snow, the white hair so wet it was plastered to his head. The face, sporting a haggard afternoon shadow, wasn’t a young face, not infirm, but had more than its share of lines. The nose was the most prominent feature, hooked like a bird of prey. He was clad in a simple ill-fitting leather jerkin over a beige woolen shirt, leather trousers and a pair of too tight leather boots finished the pathetic look. _Want to play warrior, eh? Well Vilkas will beat that right out of you, Witch Elf._

Vilkas was a fine young warrior, gifted with two-handed weapons in a way Skjor had rarely seen, especially with the great blades. Feet were a little slow and still a tad too aggressive in his approach, like a saber cat sometimes, but the swarthy lad was young, no greys yet found his black hair or his beard when he chose to sport one. _Before he reaches thirty winters, he’ll be the greatest of Jorrvaskr, hands down, and you can retire like old Vignar and play cards all day long. Or take over for the old Man and let him play cards all day long._ But Vilkas wasn’t thirty winters yet and Skjor still felt good. Very good. Good enough for the Barrow.

“What is he doing here?” Aela this time, still standing, her body on edge.

Kodlak sighed. “If you must know. He asked to join. I cannot refuse a request, Aela. Everyone has the right to prove themselves worthy to be called a Shield-Sibling.” 

The Huntress’ body language changed and Whitemane immediately perceived it, making Skjor marvel at the acute senses still present despite the greater age. “Besides, what does it matter to you if he joins or not, Aela. Unless?” Kodlak’s gray brows raised in a question, but his set jaw and thinned lips suggested something far more stern. “You are not telling me everything?” 

“He killed the giant.” Farkas blurted out, unable to resist Kodlak’s probe.

The whole fucking family turned their heads in unison at Farkas’ words, save Vilkas who was now explaining to the Witch Elf the rules of the spar, not that it would make any difference to the fool. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Witch Elf draw his weapon, a Legion gladius, and show it to Vilkas, who shook his head in disapproval. A Gladius against a greatsword, really? Skjor scoffed, typical Old Mary. _No clue and no, you can’t fucking blast your way through this spar._ Magic was strictly prohibited in the Training Circle. _You want magicks, go to the fucking college._

By now, Aela was seething, caught on a lie, which in turn, made Kodlak bristle. The Harbinger’s silver eyes locked with Aela’s “This true?” 

“It was _our_ kill. Our job.” She snarled, already on the defensive. 

“Ria was under the giant and you wouldn’t have reached her fast enough.” Farkas explained. “She would have died. So he took the shot. A bloody good one.” 

“Or bloody lucky.” Aela retorted.

Vilkas left the Witch Elf in the rain and quickly approached, his mouth downturned with irritation mixed with impatience. “He doesn’t have a suitable weapon. The gladius is a typical Legion joke.” Skjor shot him a hard glare - _don’t you insult the Legion_ , but to his surprise Vilkas wasn’t at all phased. “I will cut that blade in half with Eorlund’s steel and we cannot have another incident like Uthgerd and the boy.” He added. 

The Harbinger chewed the inside of his lip for a spell, understanding Vilkas’ concern. The woman had taken things too far, and a young lad died. They then turned her away. Hard business that, because she still frequented the Bannered Mare, still hurting from their decision. It was a poor match, a poor decision.

“Then find him something more suitable” He then abruptly shook his head, stopping the lad, and Skjor nodded. _Finally figured out what is so fucked about this, eh?_ “Wait, wait, wait, what? No practice blades?” Whitemane gestured to the rack of dulled weapons against the door of the Mead Hall. “Give him one of those. It’s a spar, not a bloody battle, Vilkas. We’re just testing his mettle.” 

“But Master, he _requested_ real weapons.” 

“What?” It was Kodlak’s turn to be annoyed. “Real? Is he mad?” 

“I told you, Master. That one is not right in the head.” Vilkas tapped his forehead with his fingers to drive home his point, and leaned closer to them, his voice barely a whisper. “The eyes are… well, they’re just wrong, glazed, bright, I’m telling you. They are a strange kind, the Witch Elves.” 

“Well, certainly can’t spar with a bow.” Skjor rolled his eyes, kind of enjoying the mess Whitemane had gotten himself into. It was not the first insane person who had asked for a spar with Jorrvaskr and got a thrashing, leaving them running away with their tails between their legs. 

“Then if he can’t fight. Send him away.” Aela suggested. “Be done with it.” 

“I’m not done with you yet, Huntress.” Kodlak warned, gesturing with his head for her to take a seat, which she immediately did, though not without a certain amount of attitude. He pointed a finger at her. “You better have not done this Hall dishonor.” 

She looked away, her expression bitter. “We fought the giant, weakened it. We would have killed it too, on my honor, I do not lie. If the Witch Elf did _anything_ , it was one, lucky shot that we didn’t ask or need him to do. Severio never saw it, he just assumed we finished the job and gave us what he owed us. I am not ashamed I took the coin or the food. You are my family.” She flashed an angry look at the Witch Elf standing in the rain and Skjor was wondering just how much of their conversation was drifting towards those white knife ears. He had never seen a Witch Elf with that color, they were normally this awful yellow color, like weak ale or piss. They were not being loud, but he never underestimated Knife Ears, their hearing was nearly as good as his own. “ _He_ is nothing.” Aela continued. “We needed the money. It’s been our first job in weeks, Old Man.” 

Skjor’s eyes found Kodlak’s. _Now who can argue with that, Whitemane?_ Aela brought up a valid point.

“Then what do I tell him?” Vilkas interrupted. “He’s waiting.” 

“Give him this.” Farkas suddenly offered, handing Vilkas his greatsword. The action made their attention shift to Vilkas’ twin and immediately Skjor felt the Nord’s heart rate accelerate and saw his fairer complexion start to redden from embarrassment and possibly fear. “If a share is what he’s wantin’, then let him fight for it. Like Aela said, we would’ve had the giant, Harbinger. But he _did_ prevent Ria from getting squashed and well, I can respect that.” Farkas glanced at the Elf, his dark brow lowering. “Doubt he can hold his own anyway. Doesn’t look so good. But the weapons will be even, Sky Forge against Sky Forge. Brother against Brother.” 

It took a spell for all of them to recover from the shock of Farkas’ rare display of wisdom and the boy nearly turned tomato from their looks.

“Did you have words after the giant?” Kodlak asked, bringing his attention back to Aela, much to Farkas’ relief. “He made no mention of it when he spoke with Vilkas and I.”

The Huntress furrowed her brow, recalling the conversation. “No, come to think of it, no Harbinger. Seemed in a great rush to get to the city. Just nodded at us, took a long look at Ria, it seemed.” 

“Like he was checking if she was alright.” Farkas added. 

“Aye,” Aela nodded. “Then, went his way. Never said a word.” 

“This true, Ria?” Kodlak asked and Aela bent her head, shame finding her features when Kodlak did not seek confirmation from her, the leader of the job, and sought it instead from the welp. _Well, that’s what happens when you lie, woman. He’s not going to let us be us if you keep lying._ He understood Aela’s motivation, she was afraid for the Mead Hall. They both saw the Old Man’s lack of interest since his ‘great’ decision several weeks ago, shutting himself in his quarters, not even stepping out for fresh air. They saw their beloved home start to fall into disrepair. But Aela didn’t just fear for the Mead Hall, which was her life and home, she was also afraid for their pack and its future. 

The Imperial girl glanced over her shoulder at the Old Mary, still standing like a bloody fool in the rain, though now he had placed a gloved hand on one of the training dummies. His expression unreadable, but with those fucking, slanted, sharp eyes his kind always have. A weird red-orange, not even the right colors. Observing, judging. Her mouth was slack in thought and Skjor thought that she had maybe not heard the Harbinger.

“Ria.” Kodlak repeated, making her snap to attention.

“It’s true, Harbinger, no words.” She confirmed. “He went on his way, as Aela said.” Her expression then changed, becoming almost thoughtful. “I didn’t even get to thank him. He saved my life. Just like...” she didn’t finish her thought.

Kodlak let out a gust of air and settled into his chair, thanking Tilma for bringing him a fresh tankard of mead and a large bowl of roasted pine nuts and Skjor couldn’t help the smirk when the old woman showed no signs of leaving. Not a warrior, but every bit a member of the family. 

“If he was interested in claiming a share, he would have brought it up. Nothing of the sort was mentioned, though I struggle to understand why it wouldn’t. The claim, from what you’ve told me, is legitimate.” Kodlak took a sip of mead, his eyes on the Elf in the rain. “Couldn’t read him well when we talked, their ways are not our ways, so more difficult to discern a motive. Only said he wanted to join. When I told him that it involved Vilkas testing his mettle, he agreed, just a nod and a stare that seemed like it was looking through the very walls, into parts unknown…” He let his voice drop and something then both hard and sad flashed through the old warrior’s eyes. “Alone. Like a great old snow bear, straight from the ice flats…” 

“Kodlak?” 

“Hmm?” The old Nord raised his eyebrows, letting out another sigh before straightening in his chair.

“Well, that doesn’t sit right with me.” Farkas frowned. “That he wouldn’t say.” 

Aela scoffed and rolled her eyes.

“I understand that it doesn’t and I actually agree with you, Farkas.” The Harbinger nodded while he favored his mead. 

“Anything else, old Man?” 

“No, Tilma, come join us and enjoy your tej.” 

“Ran out, yesterday.” She said flatly.

 _Fuck, old man, you know shit is bad when the old woman doesn’t have her bloody tej._

“I’m sorry. We’ll pick some up tomorrow. Sit with us then.” 

The old woman sat, her eyes on the Elf too and Kodlak renewed his focus on Farkas. 

“Tell you what, lad. If he does well and he makes it in, we’ll give him restitution.” His eyes found Aela’s. “It’s the honorable thing to do.” 

“Maybe you need your head examined, old Man, his people don’t have a lick of honor.” It was said as much for Aela’s wounded pride as it was for himself. 

Kodlak gave him a look, but chose to ignore Skjor’s jab “Nevertheless, _we_ have honor, especially if a life was saved in the process. Vilkas, lend the Mer Farkas’ sword. We’ll see what he does with it.” The lad took Farkas’ weapon and started to turn towards the training circle. “And boy.” Whitemane added. 

Vilkas turned around. “Yes, Master?” 

The old Man gave a smile that reflected his old spirit, instantly making Aela grin and the next words were definitely loud enough for the Elf to hear. 

“Show him the fury of Sky Forge steel and send him back crying to his Blessed Isles.” 

***

Kodlak grabbed a handful of pine nuts and then slid the bowl in front of Skjor. Dammit, salted and freshly done too. He took a bunch and then passed the bowl along to his other Shield-Siblings. They munched noisily while Vilkas entered the training circle, holding both weapons. Tilma snatched the bowl when Torvar got too greedy. 

“Save some for your brothers.” She chided. 

_Brothers? Sorry, old woman, that Witch Elf is spending the night at the Bannered Mare, not our Mead Hall._

The storming night was in full force and he could see the others begin to squint, using the flashes of lightning to see better, so he pretended to as well, though he could see just fine. He nudged Farkas and the Nord followed suit with a grunt, narrowing his silver eyes. _Don’t want anybody figuring out we can see in the dark, Ice Brain._

The Old Mary had not moved from his position and to Skjor he looked almost ghostly with that pallor, like a vampire, only vampires didn’t have heartbeats. That was definitely noticeable, faster than he expected and the Nord’s features contorted into a smug grin. _Scared already, eh?_ Probably already sweating too and Skjor looked closer, sure enough, there was a sheen of sweat on the Old Mary’s face. _One strike from Vilkas and you’ll piss your pants._

Vilkas handed the Mer the weapon.

“You know the rules.” 

The Mer only nodded, carefully taking the weapon with a brief glance at Farkas while Vilkas assumed his positioning, taking some practice swings. The Mer did nothing, didn’t even move from his spot. Skjor felt Vignar lean close to him. “Well fuck me. Not even checking the blade for balance? No practice swing?” 

Skjor shook his head. “I know.”

“This is going to be a bloody massacre. You watch, he’ll run at Vilkas like a fool. Well, Jorrvaskr could always use a funny man.” He joked, throwing a few more pine nuts into his mouth with a loud crunch.

“Shh.” Warned Kodlak. 

Vignar and Skjor exchanged knowing glances before settling to watch. 

Vilkas, noticing that the Mer wasn’t moving, assumed a position in the training circle that would force a move in order for them to spar properly. 

Skjor finished off his pine nuts and wiped his mouth of any pieces before relaxing into his chair, crossing his arms over his chest to watch. Was the dog still inside? He suddenly looked over his shoulder, through the door that was ajar and blinked. Shit, it was, now he gave the Witch Elf that, he could strain a fucking dog. 

“It’s alive!” Vignar whispered with a sly chuckle, making Skjor shoulder’s shake. He turned to the training circle. Aye, finally the Mer was moving. About time.

Skjor’s eyes then narrowed in confusion, because it wasn’t exactly what he expected. Witch Elves had small steps, some bullshit about Phynaster or some god like that, but the Mer wasn’t walking like that. There was an ease to it, almost a casual strength and grace, like a dancer, both hands on Farkas’ greatsword, though it wasn’t yet raised. His eyes totally focused on the Nord in front of him, not on the floor. It reminded him of someone. He knew someone who fucking moved just like that. 

Decimus Merotim, the Goldpact Knight. The old Blade, they called him. He turned to Kodlak and saw that the old Man’s mouth was a little open, watching, seeing the exact same thing. The Harbinger shook his head slightly when Skjor tried to talk and motioned with a quick move of his hand that they should continue to watch. 

The two began to circle, slowly. Vilkas’ blade higher, ready to strike. The Mer only circled, his blade low to the ground. They did two revolutions like that and Skjor could already see the beginnings of frustration on the young Nord’s face. The Mer wasn’t attacking. 

Suddenly Vilkas gave a swing, small, a tester, to see if the Mer was even fucking awake. It was deflected in an economical motion. 

“At least you are awake.” Vilkas sneered. 

The Mer just stared, still circling. 

Vilkas tried again, this time, doing a little thrust. And again, deflected, the same smallness to the motion. They repeated this pattern of mini strikes for a small spell and by now, the audience at Jorrvaskr was beginning to get bored. Aela sighed. Athis went from leaning against the support to sitting on the ground, his back against it. 

Then the Nord he flicked his wrist, moving the blade, testing the Mer another way. Only the Mer didn’t even cross blades, he just moved his hands, making Vilkas hit empty air. 

“What are you waiting for, Elf?” Vilkas growled. Understandable, he’d be jumping out of his trousers too at this point.

The red-orange eyes narrowed and the Old Mary tilted his head to the side, the nostrils flaring just enough for Skjor to notice. 

“For you to actually swing the blade, _human_.” 

_There are just some things you don’t say to a Nord, and that was one of them_. That set Vilkas off and he came at the Elf, his blade held behind his shoulder, the wrath hew. Going old Nord school, Skjor observed with a smile. Kodlak was nodding in approval as well. It was why Vilkas, even at such a young age, was nearly a master of his art, all that book learning and study paying off. This was going to be over quickly, for Vilkas’ strength alone, but also for his smarts. _You’ll either fall on your arse to avoid the blow, Witch Elf, or you’ll die._

In a move that surprised everyone for its incredible speed, making young Ria rise from her seat, the Elf countered the strike, their blades finally clashing. The Elf then moved the weapon slightly, using his momentum, and the blade’s tip was suddenly pointing barely a pertan from Vilkas’ face. And he heard Kodlak murmur the words, the old teaching words many fighting Nords knew. 

“Who cuts at you from above, threaten with the point…” 

A textbook deflection, executed, well fucking perfectly. By a non Nord.

“Well shit.” He heard Vignar say and the old Nord was right. Old Marys did not fight this way. 

Blowing out a gust of air from his nostrils, and perhaps a bit thrown off by the move, Vilkas shifted sideways, shoving the blade away from his face and backed away to prepare another strike. The young Nord recovered quickly, however, and renewed his sneer. 

“Beginner’s luck.” He chuckled.

The Elf was breathing hard, sweating heavily, but the blade was now ready, in a stance that was nearly as aggressive as Vilkas’. 

“Then try again, _youngling_.” 

“Youngling?” Vilkas laughed. “You’re going to eat dirt for that, Old Mary.” 

Vilkas came at him, another from over the shoulder, his favorite attack. This time the Mer came with a block from below, using the flat of his blade. And then they just blinked because what happened next was so fucking fast, that even the Circle, had difficulty processing it. Kodlak leaned forward. 

“What the Oblivion?”

Vilkas sword was on the fucking ground and it took Skjor a few seconds to figure out what the Mer actually did. The fucker had done something extremely risky and he didn’t emerge from it unscathed. Aye, he could smell the fresh blood. A cut maybe. As he brought up the block, the Mer had rapidly looped his right wrist and arm around Vilkas’ blade, forcing it to the side before trapping it hard against his body. His own sword was then brought up to lever against Vilkas and the Nord’s sword was abruptly wrenched from his hands. 

“You dropped your blade... “ The Mer gasped for breath, “Companion…” 

“Ysmir’s Beard! For that move alone, he’s in.” Kodlak said and Skjor could only nod with the others. It was true, Old Mary or not, that move was not beginner’s luck. 

But Vilkas wasn’t done and neither, it seemed, was the Mer. By now, the crew of the Jorrvaskr was getting excited, enjoying the unexpected turn of the spar and the prospect of a new member who was perhaps not as green as new spring grass. Tilma was practically ripping her dish rag in half from her happy tension and the rest were cheering while the warriors circled again. The smell of blood grew stronger, but it was not fresh blood. It was now mixed with sweat, frost mirriam, and… Skjor sniffed again, letting his senses take over. 

Sickness, pus, and poison. 

“Kodlak.” He wrinkled his nose. 

“I smell it too, Veteran, though it’s very faint.” The Harbinger whispered. By now, Farkas had turned to listen to them. Aela’s eyes were still on the warrior, but she was farther away. 

“Then stop it, he’s done enough. I am satisfied. I think we all are.” Farkas gave them a quick nod of agreement. “Vilkas will not live this down for weeks.” Skjor grinned. “Losing his weapon to an Old Mary like that.” Skjor made to stand. “We can stop--” 

“I don’t think he wants to stop, Skjor.” The Old Nord said quietly, the hard sadness returning to his eyes. 

“What?” 

“You don’t understand. You’re not yet old.” 

“That smell isn’t healthy, old Man.” 

“Let him have his moment.” 

Skjor and Farkas exchanged looks and for once Skjor was as confused as the Ice Brain was by the Old Man’s enigmatic words. Whitemane faced the sparring warriors again, the great grey brow lowering. 

It was clear that Vilkas was beginning to perceive the scent as well because he seemed almost hesitant to go for the Mer again, though he still circled. There were several false starts and Vilkas looked like he was trying to sort out what to do and Skjor didn’t blame him. If the Mer had that much of a grasp of Nord greatsword techniques, then it would be difficult to find an angle to approach, but at the same time, if he was limited, Vilkas could counter the move and end the spar. As Decimus always said, fighting is 90% thinking and 10% moving. And the boy was digging, digging for something to use against the Mer, something he couldn’t counter. 

There was a sudden twinkle in the lad’s silver eyes and he went on the move, deciding on a fake maneuver. He was going to try to trick the Mer. Farkas fell for it all the time in Jorrvaskr. Most did. Even Whitemane fell for it a few times, laughing hard when his arse hit the ground that his mead belly shook. Vilkas brought down his sword, only to shift its direction when he saw the Mer attempt the deflect.

The Witch Elf’s stance then changed. It went from the broad smooth motions of the Nord way to a more compact stance. And he went on the attack, going full forward, much smaller steps, much lighter on his feet. The blows consisted of a series of aggressive vertical and diagonal strikes, with a short, fierce cry to match each, almost a syllable or a word, perhaps. The blows quickly overwhelmed Vilkas, forcing him to bring up his blade to just block each blow, rendering him unable to move his weapon to attempt a counter. The Mer wasn’t stopping, he just kept striking, forcing the boy to retreat, his face full of focused intimidation, and it was now Kodlak’s turn to rise from his seat, sensing the threat. 

He had seen such attacks before, during the Great War. From… Skjor narrowed his eyes, fucking Blades. This was Akaviri fighting, only improvised on a greatsword instead of their grand katanas. It wasn’t perfectly executed, but it didn’t need to be. It just needed to surprise. And it did. Vilkas was helpless.

“Kodlak… say something…” Skjor whispered.

The Elf did a final vertical strike and then something happened when he prepared his next diagonal one, the face turned absolutely white as snow and the body seized up. The Mer then lost his grip on Farkas weapon, reaching for his left arm before clutching finally at his chest. 

He collapsed on Vilkas, unmoving. 

The few moments of shock were quickly broken by Kodlak. “Tilma! Smelling salts, Now!”

The old woman sprinted into the Mead hall and everyone was suddenly up, their chairs scraping loudly against the stone floor. The whelps knew to keep their distance as it was best to let the veterans of Jorrvaskr handle any injuries. Vignar was already starting to usher them inside and close the door to stop the now crying dog from busting out. The screaming whines it made were horrible to listen to, touching something deep within the Veteran’s heart. A primal deepness. It knew something was so, so wrong. 

Skjor reached Vilkas first, practically jumping down the steps to reach them. The lad was just shaking his head, his eyes wide. 

“You hurt?” 

“I didn’t touch him, I swear. I swear.” 

“No one’s saying anything, Vilkas. You fucking hurt?” He repeated.

Vilkas shook his head quickly, looking up at the Veteran. 

Skjor grunted, gently pushing the Elf off the young Nord. And he listened, carefully. Shit, shit, shit, very faint and fast, very fast. And by Hircine’s Spear, the Mer was hotter than Eorlund’s forge. He shook the Mer, but he was like a fucking ragdoll. “Come on, wake up.” he urged, and then he saw it, the stains on his left side, more deep red stains on his back at the edge of his jerkin. And he saw the wetness when he raised his hand to look in the darkness. The familiar red covered his fingers. The whole back was fucking soaked in blood. “Fuck, he’s bleeding. He’s fucking bleeding really bad. What the Oblivio--” 

“I didn’t touch him!” Vilkas yelled. 

“I know, Vilkas, I know! Just calm down!” He roared towards the door. “Tilma! The fucking salts NOW.” 

The door swung open and the old woman, moved far quicker than her years suggested, kneeled before Skjor and the Mer, tears in her eyes. “Here, here, here…take them. Oh gods, hurry! He’s like wax!” 

Skjor held the salts under the Mer’s nose and they were rewarded with a moan, the eyes snapping wide open briefly before rolling back into his head. He went totally limp then. By then, Kodlak was also by his side while Skjor began to unfasten what he realized now was an overly tight jerkin from the Mer’s body. 

“He needs to breathe. He doesn’t breathe, he dies.” He muttered, Farkas and Aela had now joined them, Farkas picking up the Mer’s head from the wet ground and supporting it on his lap while Skjor worked to remove the jerkin, fighting hard with the wet leather in the rain. Aela produced her dagger and fuck it, they just cut him out of it. The wave of putrid stench from his many wounds made all five werewolves of the Circle reel with disgust and Tilma cried out, putting her hands to her mouth. It was a foul infected mess. What the fuck happened to him?

“We take him to the Temple.” Kodlak ordered.

For a moment, all of them just stared at the old Man, blinking, not sure if the Old Man was being serious. It was forbidden to go. Their covenant with the Huntsman made it so. 

“We can’t.” Vilkas whispered.

“Kodlak, you can’t go.” Tilma reinforced, wringing her hands with worry, glad that they were all out of earshot. “Send for Danica. I can run there fast. I promise. Or Ria.” 

“Are you mad, Ria will just ask why we cannot go.” Aela hissed. 

“He can’t wait. We go.” Kodlak put his hand under the Mer’s left arm, trying to lift him up. “Farkas support his head. If we all lift, we can--” 

“Let me just lift him, Harbinger, I’m strong enough, I can throw him over my shoulder.” Volunteered Farkas.

“Yes,” Kodlak nodded. “You do tha--” 

“Kodlak!” Someone needed to bring the old man back to their world. Hircine would punish them for this, this wasn’t some passive Aedra you could fuck over whenever one felt like it. This was THE Huntsman. 

“We let a Shield-Brother die then? Because we all agreed. He is one of us.” Whitemane replied, his face beginning to flush with anger, only there was too much sweat with it, how it beaded on his forehead and nose, dripped from his temple. _Guilty, why are you guilty?_

“Kodlak. Send for Danica, aye, but don’t make--” 

He felt the old Man’s hand grab his shoulder so hard that it hurt. “We go.” Whitemane rumbled, his eyes blazing yellow for a brief moment before returning to normal. “And that is the end of it. Pick him up, Farkas. Let the Huntsman do what he wills with me. I take the blame.” 

Tilma was already gone, much to Skjor's relief and to the old Nord's flustered expression at the Old Woman's fleetness. Danica would come to them. But the intention was clear and it wouldn't go unpunished, Skjor knew that much about the one who truly ruled the Mead Hall. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: A shoutout to the Sunflower Manual for helping me sort out the quirks of two handed swordplay. I am no weapons expert and my first draft of Straag definitely showed my awkward, gameplay inspired combat. We used a combination of Medieval/Renaissance German and other techniques (Sunflower knows this way better than I do) to represent the variety of skills Aelberon has picked in his long life. I also wanted to convey that combat with such weapons didn't need to be heavy and clunky. Vilkas is a total bad ass. And, I wanted to really revamp this spar and defining moment in Aelberon's life. 
> 
> Altmeris - One of several langages I use in Straag. It is based on Hafnir's languages in the Imperial library and some snippets of lore. Unfortunately, due to the limited vocabulary in the Altmeris section, I combined it with Aldmeris so that Aelberon would have a far larger vocabulary than a toddler. Naroy is the imperative for stay or remain. A more forceful command then Nare, which is also an imperative form, but designed to be more polite and probably be the command Aelberon would use the most often with Koor. The stem word is Nara-


	7. The Burning Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original title of Straag Rod, when it was posted in the Steam forums was "Of the Knight of the Crystal Tower" and an important aspect of Aelberon's past is shown in these next several chapters, which will take the reader back to the Oblivion Crisis that ended the Third Era. For this rewrite, I converted the formally omniscient PoV into standard third person limited, did research on siege defense, reread Rising Threat by Lathenil of Sunhold, and incorporated some lore introduced from ESO's Summerset chapter and other sources, with some minor adjustments to better fit my narrative vision (Bet, the cultural division between North and South, the Order of Auri-El...). These chapters are a sentimental favorite of mine and I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Altmeri society is based on a sort of caste system, called echelons. The highest echelon belongs to scholars, teachers and priests, known collectively as The Wise. The bottom echelon consists of slave or indentured Nords (yes, that was a thing, though the Empire made it illegal) and goblins (gobliken) and just a bit above them are the workers, which is the echelon Aelberon's family belongs to. Nobility actually rank just below The Wise, though probably, many nobles are counted among them. Typically, you are bound to your echelon, once a carpenter, always a carpenter, so to speak, for many, many generations. As can be seen, Aelberon experiences quite a social climb in a relatively short amount of time. He overcomes his echelon, which is problematic to the status quo. 
> 
> Also, if you know the translation for Tamriel (Dawn's beauty), then you'll know that a Tam service just means a Dawn service. As he ages, Aelberon of Dusk will become particularly well-known in Summerset for his beautiful Tam service, he is a priest, after all. Lenya means mother and ata is father. Thanks for reading.

**_Crystal-Like-Law, Summerset Isles, 433, 3E_ **

His etched silver plate armor caught the reflection of the sky while he crouched from the ledge of his post near the top of Crystal-Like-Law, the part of the Tower that held Transparent Law and the tombs of the great Aldmeri ancestors; the Tower’s “Heart”. His hand braced against the white stone wall as he leaned precariously forward to get a better look at the horizon, his other hand resting lightly upon his bent knee. Master Lilandtar referred to the stance as his “gargoyle” pose and just imagining the old Altmer speaking the word made him smirk, but the Tower Mage was right. He could well use one of the many looking glasses scattered about the Tower’s many windows and ledges, but for this work, he would rather trust his own eyes. 

The extreme heat no longer allowed the luxury of the flowing, priestly hair with a top-knot typically associated with his Order, so instead, it was now bound, rather severely, in a series of thick braids, tight to his scalp. His priest’s leather was interlaced between the largest central braid, safe and secure. War braids in the tradition of the old Southern clans, brought by the Outsider from Skyrim so long ago. Though some in the Tower Council objected to such an overtly ‘Southern’ style, a warrior needed to keep his bloody hair away from his face. His tower cloak blew in the hot, arid breeze. Upon his waist was sheathed a bastard sword of shining silver steel, the hilt made of joined Eagles’ wings and slung around his shoulder was a golden Elven bow and a quiver of golden arrows. He himself was as an eagle perched high in his aerie, his red-orange eyes surveying the distant horizon. Or gargoyle, depending on the point of view. 

And his keen eyes watched, squinting against the bright sky.

Only it was not Magnus he was squinting against to see better. There was no sun. It was gone. Their daily shining joy to remind them of their time in the beginning, when God and Mer were nearly one. There had not been for days. Only the red flames, the churning, burning vortex of ominous clouds, dark, like burning embers upon a forge’s pit, and the searing heat. Mocking and cruel.

His hand moved slightly upon the stone wall, causing a cluster of dried leaves to burst into dust and be borne upon the torrid gust. He followed the particles as they swirled in the zephyr like a flock of birds evading a predator. They had once belonged to a living, green thing, its vines climbing the tower heights, using it as a trellis to reach Magnus, its large yellow blooms making his days on the watch pleasant with their light, crisp fragrance. They were no more, burned in the swelter, along with everything else as far as his eyes could see. The forest near the Tower where he spent many hours hidden under its dense, verdant canopy, wandering its damp, fern-covered floor when he wanted to feel soft leaves and mosses under his bare feet instead of cold hard marble was now a black, charred desolation. The many stumps now sticking up like sharp, jagged pikes. The little stream in that forest where he would fish, leaving the line idle as he lay propped against a rock or trunk reading, was now dry and cracked. The rainbow-colored Canah birds no longer perched upon the ledge of his watch, waiting impatiently for him to offer the bread crumbs from his midday meal.

Äelberon wondered if it was like this in other provinces? Did they fare better? Or did their eyes also see nothing but burning skies and parched earth? He hoped not, not even on Summerset's worst enemies. No people deserved the sight that now greeted his eyes on a daily basis.

How many days had it been? He knew not. Weeks? Months? Years? Did birthdays pass? Were babies born into this chaos? Would burning skies be all that they would ever know? He hoped not. He prayed to Auri-El every day that it would not be this way.

_Time stops when you cannot see Magnus, Jone, and Jode travel the sky. When you cannot see the many jewels of the Magna-ge glisten in the velvet night._

Everything just stops. 

Even the great clock in the Tower, it stopped. Frozen, as if harnessed by some unknown dark power. The hands no longer moving, forever stuck on that infernal day. Twenty-seventh of Last Seed. A holiday, a holiday... the fruits of the harvest. A time to reap the land and enjoy its many blessings.

Äelberon’s snow-pale face was flushed light pink with the heat and he licked his parched lips, trying in vain to wet the blisters that had formed on his lips from being at his post for too long, exposed to the hot air, but to no avail. He lacked the spit. Yet his dry, irritated eyes could not leave the multitudes of Refugees against the backdrop of the burning sky, would not leave them. It was his duty to watch them. He watched them to make sure they arrived safely.

They came in droves; some riding, some walking, some even crawling. From all parts of Summerset. The ancient cities, the tiny villages. From Cloudrest, perched upon Eton Nir, their highest peak, to Lillandril on the golden coast. From Shimmerene, Skywatch, Dusk, Firsthold, Sunhold; and even their beloved capital, Alinor, with its many delicate spires of glass and crystal. The cities were now mostly deserted, filled with piles of the dead. The great temples lay abandoned, broken. Some stalwart souls stubbornly remained to stand sentinel over what was left. 

At first they tried to leave by sea for the Tamriel mainland, but the sea swallowed their ships, sending thousands more to a watery grave. But the Tower, the Tower was whole.

To the North they came, or across the shallow sea if from Firsthold or Skywatch. The great Altmer migration to Crystal-Like-Law. The last bastion of hope for their people. From all walks of life. Simple farmers, their meager possessions hoisted onto their livestock. To the grand, ancient nobles, the very Kinsmer of the great Aldmeri ancestors, who rode in horse-drawn carriages, sheltered from the blistering heat by the Nord and goblin servants who bore their great palm fans. He watched them all enter the Tower. And the Tower took them all in, like a sheltering mother and fierce father all at once, welcoming all that remained of the Sundered children of Anu. It was designed for this. It was designed to hold all their knowledge, magic, and to protect everything that was Altmer. Including the People. And because he served the Tower, he would protect them too. With his bow, his sword, his magicks, and his life.

His eyes then shifted to what lay beyond the flocks of Refugees. That was his duty as well. To watch for Them. Their camps were just visible to his keen eyes; great portals of bright flame. The many Oblivion Gates. The demon hordes of Daedra.

They were coming.

Their commander was Molag Bal’s gift to Mehrunes Dagon for a successful campaign; sent to torment Summerset while Dagon’s eyes closely watched Cyrodiil. The Emperor and his heirs were dead, the Empire was in turmoil. There would be no aid from the Mainland. The Tower’s Council of Mages and Sapiarchs, led by the Archmagister, in desperation, relinquished their authority over the Tower to the Thalmor on the promise that reinforcements would soon arrive. That was the final thing that he was dutifully watching for, for they all trusted his eyes. 

And nothing...

He bent his head slightly in frustration, just existing within the heat, closing his eyes and released a slow sigh before his eyes opened and found the horizon again. Not a single black and gold Thalmor banner was to be seen. Not for days. They were alone. Alone against such a horde. Alone against Molag Bal’s “gift”.

Bet, the Beast.

If the creature had another name, his people did not know. It did not need another name. It simply was.

He had heard tales, horrible tales, from the Refugees of its vile deeds and the Beast was every bit the issue of the King of Rape. A great, hulking Dremora Lord with spiked armor like burning coals and horns on his head that spiraled like a goat. It bore a great axe that had the dark power of Coldharbour forged within its very metal. In its wake, only ash and death. Or even worse, undeath. Rumors, terrible rumors, for no one ever survived his onset. They simply fled or died or lived on to serve the Monster, mindless, soulless... 

Bet… Äelberon set his jaw and bent his head, his eyes now on the masses of Altmer seeking refuge, waiting to be processed so they could be allowed into Crystal-Like-Law. 

The Beast was coming.

“There are more and more of them every day, Äelberon. The Tower cannot possibly hold them all...”

Äelberon turned, still bracing himself on the ledge. Vingalmo had joined him, peering over it cautiously, his golden, Elven armor cast in an orange light. He looked troubled, his refined Altmeri features puffy from the excessive heat. 

“Aye, they are, friend.” Äelberon nodded, resuming his watch. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Vingalmo leaning over to peer over the edge again and he heard the tiny gust of air that came from the young Kinsmer’s nostrils. He could not help the smirk that found his features, the mischief already in his eyes. 

Galmo was never fond of heights. Ironic being that his good friend hailed from Cloudrest, a city upon a tall mountain. He shook his head and smiled, ‘twould be like him fearing water. Ah, to swim the cool, crystal waters of Dusk now…

There was, and would always be room in his heart for jest, no matter how dark the circumstance. To not smile anymore, aye, would be admitting defeat...

“Don’t fall!” Äelberon called out suddenly, doing his best to sound alarmed.

The Kinsmer stumbled and immediately backed away from the ledge, making Äelberon explode with laughter. 

“Xarxes’ arse! Don’t fucking do that.”

“I think yer heart is verily at yer throat, eh Caemal?” Slipping into his Dusken accent just for the fun of it. A reminder of their time at the Training Center. Better times.

“I hate you.” Vingalmo frowned. 

“Galmo, there’s a ledge, a high, sturdy ledge.” The Dusken pointed out, rolling his eyes. “Ya couldn’t fall, even if ya bloody tried.” 

“How about I make you clean my chamber pot again?” The Kinsmer flashed his own perfect white teeth in a grin, a gesture unheard of for a Northerner of a noble house, his golden eyes narrowing with his own brand of mischief. _And aye, one day, soon, you will be pranked, good and proper, Dusken._

“Worth it for yer face alone. That was priceless.” The older Mer laughed, “Soil yerself?”

Vingalmo checked quickly. A spontaneous reaction, which just made Äelberon laugh again, slapping his hand on his thigh. “Ya’re too easy, Galmo.” 

The golden Mer shook his finger at him in a threat, raising his arched brow. “One day, I will get even.” 

“Uh huh… sure, when pigs fly, friend...” 

“Do you see them, Ronnie?” Vingalmo asked, approaching the ledge again, squinting, his tone now sober. “The Thalmor?”

“No, Galmo.” He answered softly, leaning against the wall of the tower, trying to find a cool patch upon the stone. There was none. “They do not come.”

“They’ll come. They promised.” Vingalmo assured. 

“Hmm…perhaps, but they are not here now. I must report what I see, not was was hoped.” 

“Aye…” Vingalmo’s voice trailed off. 

Äelberon was not so sure the Thalmor would come. He was with Rynandor on this, on the matter of giving the Thalmor control of the Tower. He did not like it, not one bit. The Thalmor were a political, but vocal minority in Summerset politics. A group who primarily investigated incidents with the goal of safeguarding Altmeri heritage, but they were used to being the executors of law, the right hand of power. It was a rank denied them since his Homeland’s incorporation into Septim’s Empire and Äelberon’s gut told him that they wanted that back. 

“And do you also see?” Vingalmo then whispered, bringing the Tower Knight out of his political musings.

“Yes,” His tone grew serious, pointing to the distance. “There, Galmo. Do you see the very bright fires? Lighter than what burns the sky? Near the horizon? Those fires are not in the sky, but ground level. Those are the gates. That is where they are camping. It is closer than it was yesterday. They are headed this way.”

The Kinsmer scanned the distance, but his shaking head told Äelberon that he did not see what was by now, so burned into his mind. “By the Gods you have the eyes of an eagle. I see nothing. It all looks like fire to me.

“I wish I did not.” Äelberon replied, stepping down from the window’s ledge, his eyes finding the churning, burning sky. “I wish I could not see them.” He said quietly. “I wish I was blind and that all this was not happening…”

“Aye. Under all this light and heat and yet, it is still such darkness.” Vingalmo sighed, putting his hands upon the ledge and leaning. Both were feeling the great heaviness of being alive at this time, both knew it would define them, haunt them for the rest of their days. The Knights of the Crystal Tower. Powerless. Vingalmo shifted position, leaning more on one hand than the other, his golden eyes far away. “Do you regret it?” he asked.

The decision that had changed both their lives.

“No.” He replied. 

Vingalmo smiled warmly, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Ronnie?”

“Aye?”

“I only regret that you didn't take a proper shit that day.” Äelberon rolled his eyes, totally taken by surprise, which only made the Kinsmer sneer with glee. “Got you, got you good. You thought I was going to be all sentimental, eh?”

“Ya better watch yer back, Caemal.” 

“Not if I don’t get you first.” Vingalmo then gestured with his head toward the entryway of the Tower. “Go, Ronnie. You are blushing pinker than a matron on the hooka from all this heat and your lips are practically split. Inform the Tower Council and the Archmagister. Then take a rest and drink something cold. I will keep watch.” 

***

Rynandor the Bold watched their frenzied discussion come to an abrupt end when his Tower Knight strode into their conference room. No tiny Phynaster’s steps, all warrior, all priest. Though he bore the strain of the extreme heat upon his flushed and chapped face, the Mer, a good head taller than most Altmer, still cut an imposing image in his silver plate armor, the noble, beardless face made of harsh lines, his war braids on full display. The pride of Dusk.

The Tower Knight bowed out of respect. “Archmagister.” If he was parched, the clear and low voice betrayed nothing.

Rynandor turned away to face a window. Burning sky was all that greeted his eyes and he closed them in an attempt to block the image, but he could still see the cast of what he saw, the reflection. It was pointless, so he opened them, and again faced the burning sky. 

“Knight-Paladin Äelberon, what news?” Rynandor solemnly asked, not even bothering to turn from the window. He had taken to calling Äelberon by his full rank within the Order since the skies began their burn. The People needed to be reminded of the true faith of the five, for many had turned to Daedra worship in the years preceding, turned to the weakness of the Imperial Eight, or worse, the Nine and the Archmagister wondered, at times, if this was what caused all the ill upon their Homeland. Turning away from what was right, what was tradition. So he used young Äelberon’s rank as a constant reminder, a reminder that Auri-El’s way could still belong to their land. 

And walk in Auri-El’s way the Knight-Paladin certainly did. 

“Yes, Archmagister.” Äelberon nodded, now acknowledging the other gathered Mages and Sapiarchs of the Tower, his gauntleted hand on the gilded hilt of his bastard sword. Rynandor had watched the Dusken’s mother slave over the forge to make that weapon. It was so utterly beautiful, so exquisitely made that High Chancellor Ocato himself had asked for a copy, offering to pay the lady a full years’ wages to make him the sword’s brother. 

She refused, declaring that only her son would ever wield its likeness. 

The Chancellor was a kind Mer, very understanding of a mother’s devotion to her son. Another Mer would have punished her defiance, for she was not of high station. Rynandor, by then, was already used to the stubbornness of Duskens.

“The Thalmor? They have arrived then?” Asked one of the Tower Mages, interrupting Rynandor’s thoughts.

Rynandor stroked his long beard and pulled himself from the window to face the Knight-Paladin. Only forty-two, so young to have such a title, the youngest ever to have successfully walked the Chantry in his first attempt. The Knight-Paladin turned to address the Mage who had asked the question.

“No, Master, no Thalmor banners.”

The room erupted in commotion at the Knight-Paladin’s words. Angry outcries for putting their trust in another faction vied against rallies for continued Thalmor support. They were immediately silenced when the Archmagister waved his hand. He then tucked both hands within his bell sleeves, his face projecting the placid calm worthy of a Leader among the Wise.

“There is more?” Rynandor pressed.

Äelberon nodded. “Yes, there is more, Archmagister. The Oblivion gates are now visible from the South. And their camps are closer than they were yesterday. They are coming.”

“Are you sure?” Asked another mage. “Perhaps the boy is mistaken.”

Rynandor frowned. _Only I get to call him ‘boy’_. “If my Tower Knight speaks it, then you should know by now that he is bound by his Holy Order to speak only in Truths.” 

The mage bowed in apology. “I didn't mean to imply doubt, Archmagister,” a cursory glance at Äelberon and another small bow, just with the head. “Knight-Paladin.” 

“So, they are finally coming.” Rynandor repeated his Tower Guard’s words, betraying nothing of the frantic planning his mind was now embarking on to his fellow council members. 

“Then we must fortify our defenses and devise escape routes for the citizens.” Spoke Master Lilandtar, holding his head high in defiance. “We have the best soldiers and Mages in all of Tamriel. We are Summerset. We are Altmer. We do not need the Thalmor wiping our noses.” There was some light laughter in the room at Lilandtar’s harsh words, but also grumbles of protest. 

“You protest?” His apple green eyes suddenly narrowed in scrutiny. “They are clearly not here. Which means that they have been beaten.” 

“We do not know that.” Argued another mage.

“They may still come.” Said another.

“I say, let the Daedra come, and let them know fear…” 

Rynandor faced the window again, stroking his beard. “Master Lilandtar is correct in that we cannot rely on the Thalmor at this point. We must assume the worst, that they are gone. Knowing this, our thoughts must go to the People under our care, towards their preservation. The preservation of us.” He nodded. “You are dismissed, Knight-Paladin, leave us to discuss what is to be done.” 

The young Mer bowed low. “Your command, Archmagister.” 

***

He stood at the edge of the battlements at the base of the Tower with thousands upon thousands of his fellow Altmer soldiers. His silver plate armor a sharp contrast to the sea of golden Elven that stretched far and wide. They were joined by ranks of armored trolls, the trebuchet and catapults already positioned behind them. 

A great wall, dotted by octogonal parapets at regular intervals was now part of the Tower’s reinforced base, encircling it, providing the Tower with an extra measure of defense. Äelberon despised the how of it, however, that it was not built from the cooperation of those facing a common enemy, but from the labor of those who were not in a position to refuse the order. Southern and Slave alike broke backs over the brick and wood he now stood upon. And some had died. It made Äelberon feel hard his own echelon again, having hushed angry words with the Archmagister when private doors were closed. Would his family be next to give while others did nothing? Did the Tower Council so quickly forget what Dusk and Sunhold had given in blood and service to Summerset for eras, fought their wars? That the Nords and gobliken indentured to serve were _not_ less than Man or Mer under the law of the Empire?

The Archmagister assured him ‘no’ and then they apologized profusely to each other, the great mage, through uncustomary tears, begging him to call him “‘Nandor”, telling him that he could not bare that he had hurt the Mer he now considered kin. And they shared a smoke in silence, a new understanding between them. The Archmagister was forgiven, because he was family now, but it did not stop Äelberon from thinking on what had been done. It did not stop him from vowing to fight harder for those who had given up so much. So he, though a member of the Wise, and therefore, to be protected, instead chose to stand with his fellow soldiers. 

Waiting. 

Watching. 

For days. 

For forever it seemed, to Äelberon, though without the sun there was no real way to measure the passage of time. It had to be days. The Daedric armies had been advancing steadily toward Crystal-Like-Law, an Oblivion army of smoke and inferno and Bet was among them, the one purple flame of Coldharbour. As stark against Dagon’s red fire as Äelberon’s silver was against his people’s gold. Undeath within the fires of Oblivion. 

Yet now they stopped. They stopped at the expanse of charred, black trunks and ventured no further. Cowards, just beyond his arrow's reach. Profaning that once lovely forest with their filth. Äelberon scanned the dense sea of burnt, broken stumps, squinting as the light from the fiery sky hit his eyes. He needed a better view.

“Fal!” He commanded.

His battle troll lumbered to him, his white, shaggy coat contrasting with his sturdy plate armor.

“Up!”

Without hesitation, the troll offered the Mer its arm and in a fluid motion, Äelberon vaulted onto the troll’s shoulders, balancing. The added height gave him a better vantage point. The beast snorted beneath him, bearing the Dusken’s full weight upon one shoulder with ease. 

They had fought together for the better part of two years, suppressing two attacks on the Tower by The Beautiful, a dissident group bent on seeing the Tower fall. And when they were joined by Archmagister Rynandor the Bold, the trio was deadly. It was the way they did battle. They had foot soldiers, pikemer and archers, siege weapons and even cavalry, but the most deadly were these such combinations. A troll for brute strength. A Tower Knight for close combat and marksmership, and finally a Master Mage or Sapiarch of Tower. Both troll and Tower Knight were to protect the mage at all costs. Rynandor was still at the top of the tower, watching the battlements from one of its many balconies. Ready to magically recall to Äelberon’s side should the need arise.

Äelberon scrutinized the charred, leafless trees nearest to the battlements and readied his bow with a single arrow imbued with frost magicks, catching the attention of his fellow soldiers. Some conjured bows in response, while others conjured swords. The flame atronach was so close, leaving a trail of flame in her wake. gliding gracefully through the blackened stumps, teasing him with her nearness. He could hit her if she just moved a bit closer. The bow was raised, but he had yet to draw, feeling the anticipation build in his comrades. Would he strike the first blow for his people, the Dusken? The Pale Elf as some had taken to calling him. Would he do it? Äelberon could hear their whispers, feel their looks.

He certainly wanted to. 

For his People, for his Homeland. She came closer and he drew his golden bow, hearing gasps from his fellow soldiers. 

_Let me strike the first blow, my Lord_ , he prayed, taking aim, _let this war be over, for good or for ill._

As if she knew what he most deeply wanted, the atronach retreated back to the shadows of the skeletal forest, back to her Demon Master lurking his burnt refuge. Back to Bet. Äelberon relaxed his bow, his face darkening with anger, hardening the angles of his face.

Äelberon cursed, leaping off Fal to storm back into the Tower. He was angry and angry Mer made poor fighters, his old Master, Kahlailas, used to always say when his temper would get the better of him. _Go cool off. Go do something other than stand and wait._

He was greeted with the fear and despair that permeated the air of the Tower. Refugees waited in terror, dirty, eyes wide, flinching as he approached and that softened him immediately. _You are their protector, their advocate, not someone to fear._ It was as if all the beauty of the Tower, all the goodness of Her Knights, all the goodness of the building itself, with its white marble and crystal walls, carved, seamless, were now a mockery of the ugliness that was the predicament of the People Crystal-Like-Law sheltered. He stopped and just looked around, taking the sight in, reminding himself of his duty to them, the duty as outlined in his Tenets. 

Refugees were everywhere, huddled against each other for protection and comfort, and their eyes spoke such volumes to Äelberon. Some eyes were wide with fear, some eyes barely contained anger, and some eyes… some eyes were just glazed over and empty, they had given up. 

“Walk always in the light of Mercy and Compassion, so that all may bear witness to His true goodness.” Äelberon murmured, remembering his favorite Tenet of his Order.

 _Walk the words of this Tenet most, my boy, and all the rest will come together._ Said with an easy smile from Master Kahlailas. Life lessons learned, not within the walls of a formal temple, but fishing side by side in the early morning hours before Tam service, feet bare, humble with the world. 

Äelberon eyes focused on a Mer in the corner, face grimy, blond hair matted, clutching his bleeding arm. He leaned against the cold marble wall, trembling in shock, for he had no one, though he wore the colors of a noble house. He looked to be around Äelberon’s age, but it was clear that he knew nothing of hunger and struggle, never knew the pain of summers where the fish refused to bite, when all there was to eat was rice flavored with dried wisteria blossoms. Until now. 

He approached the Mer and knelt beside him only for the Mer to cower away from him, fearful of his touch. The wound was not from a Daedra, which meant only one thing. 

Xarxes’ arse, Äelberon shook his head in disappointment, he would have to discuss this yet again with Rynandor. Morale was so low that skirmishes between the soldiers and the Refugees were now commonplace. He had been doing much in the way of crowd control in these last days, but even his rank as Knight-Paladin within the Order was being tested by insubordinates. 

“Who struck you?”

The Mer only shook his head, unwilling to answer, and the Knight-Paladin sighed. Not all kept his Tenets and that was a grave disappointment. Aye, he would need to bring this up with the Archmagister. It made everyone’s jobs far more difficult. He raised his hand slowly and moved the bloodied hair from the Mer’s face, exposing a gash on his forehead. The Mer was shaking now, with tears in his eyes. Äelberon’s face became grim, what had been done to make a grown Mer tremble so? What had been done by his own people? The enemy was out there, under the burning sky, not the innocents seeking refuge in the Tower.

“You need not fear me.” Äelberon whispered gently. “I will speak to the Archmagister about what has happened, but first, you need help. I will be right back.”

He got up to fetch a large bowl of water and some rags and knelt again near the Mer, seeing the Mer’s eyes go wide with recognition and dammit, he could feel his ears start to turn pink.

“You are the Pale Elf.” The Mer gasped. 

Äelberon gave the Mer an uncomfortable nod of acknowledgment and set himself to the task at hand, removing his gauntlets to make things easier, to give the Mer the benefit of his direct touch.

“You are the Eagle. I saw you when I came. Perched above, so high.” 

“That is my post, and…” He chuckled while he dipped a rag in the bowl of water. “It is nothing so fancy. I am nothing like the great birds that circle our Tower. Where are you from, friend?” Äelberon asked, ringing the cool water from the rag. He then applied it to the head wound.

“Sunhold.” He managed, wincing when the rag touched his head. _Good, he knows where he is from_ , Äelberon thought, _the damage is not too bad._ He decided to continue the conversation, however, to further assess the injured Mer. Head injuries were never to be taken lightly.

Äelberon flashed his teeth in a hearty grin that betrayed his own heritage, very satisfied that the young Mer was not so stuffy to acknowledge a true southern smile. “Ah, a fellow Southerner. A beautiful city, Sunhold. My ancestors hailed from there, many, many years ago, and I have stopped there many times on journeys home when I was training at Alinor. Give praise at its fine temple. I am from its younger sister.” 

“Dusk.” The noble nodded, understanding. 

“We are a long way from home, eh?”

A melancholy smile passed through the young Mer’s features. “I miss it so much.”

Äelberon paused from cleaning the wound. “You know what I miss?”

“What?”

“The Sea. I miss the blue, blue Sea.” He resumed cleaning the wound, the tone of his voice turning wistful as he spoke. “I miss the Sea at sunset as my father and I hoisted in the day’s catch onto the boat. Aye, she was a fine boat, yar. And the Sea was so cool. We always indulged in a swim after a hard day’s toil.” His tone then changed, becoming more playful, “And… I also miss honey nut treats. Have not had those in weeks. I do not much care for sweetrolls, which is all they have here now.” _Ah, now there’s a true southern boy, ya made a face too, eh?_ “’Tis a Northern thing, this fondness for sweetrolls…” He grumbled, feeling his eyes twinkle with mischief.

“I wish I could go home.” The young noble sighed as Äelberon finished cleaning the gash on his head.

“You will return, I promise. What is your name, friend?”

“Lathenil.”

“Well Lathenil of Sunhold, friend from the South, I am Äelberon of Dusk. Give me your arm, Lathenil, I need to cleanse here too,” he decided to lighten the mood. “Canna go healin’ that with bits of dirt inside, now can I?” Lathenil laughed at the accent. “Aye, ‘tis a thick Dusken speech I’ve got.” 

“It was barely noticeable.” The noble remarked. “Especially in the beginning.” 

“They nearly beat it out of me.” Äelberon joked. “Nearly.” He added with a wink.

Äelberon gently took Lathenil’s arm and cleaned it with water, drying it carefully with another clean rag. When he finished, he put the bowl with the bloody rags down and looked into Lathenil’s amber eyes.

“Now, Lathenil, I need you to hold still for me.” Another grin, perhaps a bit thick on the fun, but that was always his bedside manner, much to the chagrin of some of the other healing Masters. Worked wonders on children, but adults with a good sense of humor appreciated it as well. “Need ta make sure things heal in the right spot,eh? Don’t want a wee arm growing where it shouldn’t” There was a brief flicker of literal dread in Lathenil’s eyes, that Äelberon admitted was sort of fun to witness, before the noble finally understood the joke and laughed aloud, resulting in the body relaxing, which is exactly what Äelberon wanted to happen. He could feel the tension escape the Mer and the Priest of Auri-El then set to work, his left hand beginning to glow, his magicks searching through the torn flesh on both head and arm, finding the best ways to reconnect and heal, rebuilding tissue and blood. While he worked, he offered Auri-El prayers, moving his lips silently. The young Mer was staring at the wound on his arm, watching it close before his eyes, the exposed bone covered again. With a final flare of magicks, both wounds were completely sealed and Äelberon released a content sigh, thanking his Lord for giving him strength and the opportunity to do his work. 

“Better?” Äelberon raised his eyebrows while he fastened his gauntlets.

Lathenil nodded and Äelberon could see the awe in the noble’s eyes. The respect. He shook his head, dismissing it almost shyly. “Nah, don’t think it’s anything special, friend. I’m just His servant. He’s the real master, the great power that makes me possible. He’s the law of this Tower. Trust in his path, Lathenil of Sunhold, and anyone can walk the world right.” Äelberon then stood tall and offered Lathenil his hand. Noble clasped the hand of a fishermer and was lifted up by it. The clasp morphed into a sound shake, a Southern shake and both Mer smiled because the touch was certainly observed. 

“May the Southern skies always be welcoming, friend. May the honey nut treats always be warm and sticky,” Lathenil offered, still clasping Äelberon’s hand. 

They both laughed and Äelberon released first, making his way towards the steps that led deeper into the Tower. 

“And may Auri-El forever guide you.”

***

 _He’s not aware of you yet,_ Rynandor smiled, watching the boy who knelt before the shrine to Auri-El near the Ancestors’ tombs and his study. Praying. So the Archmagister approached silently and knelt next to the youngling. Always good to pray. 

Rynandor saw the fatigue on the youngling’s face as he recited the tenets of his Holy Order under his breath, the keen red-orange eyes almost doggedly unwavering upon the shrine’s form. _He’s completely aware of you now, he’s just not letting it disturb his prayers,_ Rynandor smirked. When the boy did not fight, he prayed. And when he did not pray, he read. 

Xarxes’ arse, a voracious reader indeed. From the moment he set foot in Crystal-Like-Law, Äelberon of Dusk read. And they had called the Dusken dumb. _You did too_. The youngling spent more time in the Great Library than Rynandor did and he was Archmagister. Rynandor’s gaze turned tender when he saw that the youngling had finished his tenets. The boy was tired. All day at the battlements and now healing. Being both a soldier and a priest was no simple task, he was being pulled in two directions. And in the evening, aye, he would then go to the Great Library, spend his nights under the burning sky reading, learning. 

“You’ve been healing again.” The Old Mage questioned, thoughtfully stroking his long, light blond beard.

The boy sighed, his forehead creasing with concern. If he didn’t stop that habit, his face would become well-lined before sixty and while lines were a mark of respect in Altmer in their eighth century, they marked a Mer of the lower echelons if they appeared within the first century. Rynandor could already see the beginnings of a permanent line starting to form on the Elf’s pale forehead. The skin, though far too fair, was of excellent quality, healthy and smooth. The boy did not need lines marring it. It would not help him later.

“I cannot help it, they are desperate. Both the refugees and the soldiers.” 

“Another incident?” 

The Knight-Paladin nodded, blowing out a gust of air. “I counsel against it. The Refugees are under our care, our protection, but some say the stress is too great, that they need release. I tell them ‘no’, that they are not the enemy, not to be treated that way, neither are the slave Nords and gobliken that Auri-El only knows why, still serve some of them. The enemy is what lies at the horizon,” Äelberon chewed the inside of his lip, betraying his frustration. “I just do not understand, Archmagister. I thought…”

“That this crisis would unite us, son?” 

Äelberon looked so incredibly tired then, his youthful brow gaining yet another line. “Aye. I thought.” He replied, unconsciously running his fingers through his hair, finding his priestly leather intertwined within a braid, his long white fingers lingering on the worn lacing. The action made Rynandor think of his grand niece, how she did the same action, trying to find comfort. “It hurts. They are my people, it hurts to see them cause pain against each other.” 

It was the old Mage’s turn to bend his head. “It does, son, but even we have had to overcome our own difficulties in this Great Crisis, have we not?” 

“Ah, Archmagister, you do not need to bring that up. It is long forgiven.”

“But it should never be forgotten, lest we repeat the ill.” 

“I understand.” 

“Good.” 

The Knight-Paladin’s fingers left the lacing and then moved to rub his forehead and Rynandor could sense the pressure building behind the boy’s skull. The Archmagister put a hand on his Tower Knight’s shoulder. “Ronnie, come inside my study. Share a spot of tea with me.” 

The boy’s instinct was to fight it and say he was fine, to return to his post, but the young Altmer let his broad shoulders stoop and with a final kiss to the shrine, he rose with Rynandor, following the old Sapiarch to his study. 

Rynandor the Bold was Archmagister of Crystal-Like-Law, but his study was not the most elaborate there. That honor belonged to Lilandtar of Cloudrest, Lord of House Larethian, whose study was covered in gilded artifacts and silken tapestries. Satin pillows, satin sheets, and ornately carved furniture from the exotic Easter provinces. In strange, vivid shades of gold, purple, green, and orange. In contrast, Ryandor the Bold’s study was austere by Altmeri standards, just simple wooden furniture and walls of bookshelves in a dark finish. But it was a typical mage’s study nevertheless in that it was a sea of scrolls, books, papers, and drying ink wells that were never quite closed properly. Äelberon, of course, because he was just as much of an Altmer as could be expected, closed a half-full inkwell absently, making the old mage smile. 

And when young Äelberon of Dusk was not at the Great Library, he was in Rynandor’s study. Learning, despite telling Rynandor on many occasions that he had loathed school. Yet he loved learning. Rynandor smiled again, learning was not school and he knew Altmeri schools well enough to know why the boy had despised it. A mind like Äelberon’s would have been stifled, for it did not quite work in the same fashion. 

They learned quickly when they arrived at the Tower of the boy’s ‘affliction’. He had earned poor marks in school, not for a lack of intelligence, but for the great font that was his memory. The lad remembered everything, every book he read, every day of his life, every meal he consumed, on what day it was consumed even. Now, Altmer were well-known for their memories, but the boy’s level of recollection was unheard of. To some, the affliction would have been a permanent burden, a permanent fog of jumbled memories, never knowing when a memory would surface and hinder daily function. He told Rynandor of hours spent at school just remembering, uncontrolled, closed off to the rest of the world. But with hard work and Curate Kahlailas’ guidance, and now Rynandor’s, young Äelberon had taken the affliction and turned it on its head, using it to his advantage. 

So he read. Everything he could get his hands on, sometimes seeming more mage than warrior in his habits, not sleeping, forgetting to eat, so he could read more. A warrior with a mage’s disposition. A terrible combination, thought Rynandor and likely the cause for the boy’s severe headaches. But Äelberon was undaunted, working through the pain, continuing to read, as if he wanted it all to sink in ‘before it was too late’. _Before it was too late_ , a strange phrase for the boy to utter and Rynandor wondered sometimes if the gift of foresight was also coming into play. Or the curse. 

Rynandor the Bold struggled with his own curse of foresight. He was a seer-mage, and it was something he would not wish on any other, for it was entirely too cruel. The visions, the premonitions often kept him up at night. It prevented remarriage, the promise of a lasting legacy, because why himself through that again? Their deaths, deaths that he knew would come to pass and yet could do nothing to prevent. He slammed the door to those dark thoughts. Tea, it was time for tea. 

The Archmagister reached for his trusty tea pot, pushing aside a sea of paperwork to get to it. He smiled when he noticed that it was already filled with fresh water. The boy’s doing, no doubt. _How many pots today for you already today, Rynandor? Eh?_ It was pot four. He let the heat build in his hands as he held the teapot between his palms. Moments later, water boiled, though he felt nothing, his hands shielded against the build up of heat. The neat little tricks of an old Tower Sapiarch. His golden eyes spied the two satchels and the two cups already on the table, ready for the water. Boy was quick and yet, Rynandor saw no steel-plated hands place the items there. He knew how it was accomplished and nodded in approval. _Very well done, Ronnie, very well done._ What had started as simple parlor tricks were quickly becoming utility. _One day, you will verily move mountains, boy_. The mage’s eyes glanced towards the shelves, seeing the silver plate of his armor. 

_There you are_.

He did not want to get to the point of the conversation and the point of Äelberon being in his study. Not quite yet. He was enjoying this little moment of ‘normal’ in their lives, so the Archmagister decided to begin with Altmeri small talk. 

“I saw you at the Library yesterday.”

The old mage immediately saw a sly smile pass through the young Mer’s features. The boy was tracing the leather spine of a book with his finger, noting its title. No doubt reading the book once more in his mind, every word memorized. 

“I am at the Great Library every day, Master.” 

Rynandor the Bold chuckled.

It had been a running joke among Master Mages and Soldiers of the Tower alike. How long would it take the poor, simple Dusken to read every book in the Great Library? A thousand years? Two thousand? Money was even collected, bets struck. Rynandor, in the beginning, had even put his own wager in, for he also thought it was a silly undertaking. Dubbed the folly of a Country Elf who didn’t know any better. But two years later, Rynandor now saw the value of it and he could sense the ‘Country Elf’ was nearly done with such a monumental feat. Not the simple warrior they had originally thought him to be, but instead possessing of a most brilliant, if unconventional, mind. 

Rynandor sat heavily at his desk, his thin shoulders stooped and Äelberon leaned against its edge casually, crossing his arms over his chest. The two cups of steeping tea then moved towards them, the boy biting his lower lip in concentration. A cup stopped just in front of the Archmagister. Another cup ended its journey near Äelberon’s hip, where it was promptly picked up. Rynandor held the steeping tea and took a long sip, savoring a job well done. 

“You’re a proper mage now, Ronnie, you can make a spot of tea.” 

The boy laughed. “I guess so, though I think the Tower Guard will not appreciate me going mage. And I still cannot heat it up. Fire still alludes me, though I will still read the tome on occasion.” 

“Even I struggle at times to figure out where you will fit best, boy.” Rynandor took another sip. “And I don’t think that is necessarily a bad thing. Cannot deny the skills of both body and mind. However, I think this phase of your training is important and we should continue our lessons, the burning sky be damned.” The Archmagister grinned and took another sip. With a nod of pride, he set the cup down. “Besides, you make a fine tea, and there is nothing wrong with preparing a fire the conventional way to heat the water.” 

Another laugh from the warrior-mage and they enjoyed their comfortable silence. It was difficult to place Ronnie from a magical perspective. The boy showed an almost comical lack of aptitude in some schools, skills his fellow soldiers often took for granted; Destruction, Conjuration, Illusion, the flesh spells of Alteration. On the other hand, besides the healing and priestly magicks passed down from Curate, Kahlailas, Äelberon was proving to be a rather potent Mystic, an unpopular and dying school, possessing an almost uncanny ability to see patterns in the magical chaos. As if he understood the chaos, or, Rynandor lowered his brow, related to it in some way. 

“Master?”  
  


“Hmm?” Rynandor glanced in the youth’s direction and then shook his head, dismissing his title with a wave of his hand. “We are alone, Ronnie, no Master here. Remember, we are kin now.” 

“Alright, 'Nandor. You need a smoke?” The young Mer raised his eyebrows in question. 

Duskens are a bloody blunt bunch. Boy perceived his weariness already and Rynandor the Bold sank back in his chair, closing his eyes, allowing his stoic façade to crumble. “Aye, as much as you do probably. It was a difficult meeting today.”

“Do they have a plan?” 

“They have several possible scenarios.”

“And will the families be compensated? For the battlements?” 

The other pressing question and the one that nagged the most on young Ronnie’s mind. 

“Yes, there will be compensation. A majority was achieved.” _Just barely_ , sighed Rynandor, but the youth didn’t need to know that. It was curious that Lilandtar ended up footing most of the funds to compensate the families of the workers who had died and, of course, not wanting to be outdone by Lord Larethian, others in the Council followed suit. The people who sacrificed for the battlements were not being honored for of their sacrifice, but because the Wise would not dare risk the wound to their pride.

“Thank you, ‘Nandor. That means a great deal to me.” 

“Then aye, reward this old Mage with a proper smoke, and take one for yourself. My apologies for introducing you to the disgusting habit. Your poor Ata too.” He chortled. 

“No one put a sword to our heads, 'Nandor.” 

“True, but I can tell she doesn’t approve.” 

“She thinks it smells atrocious. Especially the skooma.” 

“Well, she’s not wrong. Lenyas seldom are.” Rynandor straightened in his chair, realizing that he would have to get to the point of the boy’s visit. “Did she bring her trade tools? Your Lenya? How is she liking the cooking pot and the cutting board? Are the quarters now too cramped? I did not want her staying at the lower levels. I know you would worry. And so would I, especially with the increased skirmishes, bad business, that.” 

Something a little hard flashed in the boy’s expression and Rynandor wondered if he had again made a mistake with his wording. But the hardness quickly passed and the boy bowed his head in appreciation, though he did not make eye contact. “Master. We are comfortable. Thank you. And yes, she brought her tools.” 

They were indeed cramped in those tiny quarters, but neither Dusken would ever admit it. But at least they were away from the rabble down below, the fighting and on that, Rynandor was relieved. They would make due for now and when the Crisis was over, he would reward Ronnie with his own quarters in the Tower’s upper floors as befitting his current echelon, not the converted closet of Rynandor’s own study that the young Mer was in now. 

“She will make me fish?” It suddenly came out, but Rynandor could not help it. His own pressing question for the day, so to speak.

Äelberon burst out laughing as he sluggishly slid from the desk to fetch the pipes. “You must really need smokes, 'Nandor, if you are even asking that question. Of course she will cook for you. Silly to even ask.”

“I had missed it.” 

“So did I. I am happy she, at least, is here.” 

“You are eating well, then?” 

“Aye, I _am_ eating well. She brought much from the south in her wagon, Southern comforts, at least in my eyes, though I think the oxen used to drive it were later slaughtered for food. A gift to the Tower.”

The mage’s brow raised in surprise. “ _That_ was generous of her.” 

“Generous of _Dusk_ , it was the city’s gift to the Tower. Oxen are oxen, they feed many, fresh meat is rare, and the Tower’s resources are beginning to dwindle.” He replied.

The Archmagister nodded and he was again blown away by the simple, yet direct generosity of Summerset’s poorest city. “Do not fret, son, we can still access the menagerie, if food stores dip too low.” He smirked. “How do you like your indrik?”  
  


“I have not tried indrik.” 

“For all their grace in appearance, they are tough, bloody tough.” 

“Surely, we will not eat the eagles and gryphons? They are sacred.” The boy’s look of concern was genuine.

“What was it your family used to eat? When the fish wouldn’t bite?” Rynandor asked absently, avoiding answering Ronnie’s question, because it weighed too heavily upon him. If this dragged out for much longer, the Altmer would be forced to do many things.

“Rice with dried wisteria.” 

The old mage’s expression grew thoughtful. “That doesn’t sound half bad. Has a very pleasant smell, if I recall. I wouldn’t mind if we were reduced to that, but I think we will be eating far worse before it’s over, skeever, maybe rats. Best we enjoy what we have now, Ronnie.” He gave the youth a nod and a wink. “And that includes the smokes.” 

Their pipes were set on the Archmagister’s desk along with a vial of strong Corinthian skooma, and a look of expectation from the boy, making Rynandor’s thin shoulders shake with a silent chuckle. 

“Needing the strong stuff today, eh?” 

“My apologies, Master, I was thinking that you perhaps did. Would you like Elves ears instead?” He replied, reaching for the vial to put it away. Rynandor stopped the hand with a look and grabbed the vial, along with Äelberon’s pipe. _I will prepare your pipe first, boy._

“I would prefer you slept soundly tonight, Ronnie. And I could stand to rest myself. She will smell it. Hmm, the outside may cover it up. I think we will be fine.” 

“Perhaps.” 

Rynandor was allowed into their family when the youngling took his Holy Orders, walking the Chantry just last year, and he remembered fondly the time spent with Ronnie’s family in their home near Dusk. 

The Point, a large rocky grotto that was the southernmost tip of the Isles. An ugly, dirty cave to those who chose not to venture inside, to those who chose to judge before knowing, but to Rynandor, it was a place verily touched by Nirn’s grace. Under filtered sunshine, the interior of the grotto consisted of several tiny, tiny islands, interconnected by flexible bridges of wood and rope, and covered in clinging wisteria, windswept myrtle, mosses, ferns, all growing with an unrestrained, wild balance. Upon the largest central island, stood a great golden wisteria tree, its blossoms raining perpetual showers, the nightly roosting place of many preening canah birds. Nestled under the tree’s great canopy was a humble home, a miniature reflection of Dusk’s quaint architecture with its rustic wood and shingled roofs. And within that home? The most welcoming hearth Rynandor had ever seen in all his seven hundred and twenty-nine years. There, he ate, drank, enjoyed himself, and Introduced the lovely, gods-fearing family that dwelled inside to all of his despicable mage’s habits. Ata and son took to them like Khajiits take to sugar. The lenya did not. Always the bloody lenyas. He saw the youngling’s face grow serious again as he handed the lit pipe to the boy. A weary gust of smoke escaped the young Mer’s lips and nostrils.

“Better?” Ryandnor asked, now preparing his own pipe.

The boy only nodded, closing his eyes, taking another deep inhale. 

“The pressure should decrease soon. Be sure to meditate tonight, alright? I worry about the headaches, Ronnie. They are more frequent.” 

“I will manage.” 

“Fortitude doesn’t mean being stupid about it, care for others begins with care of your person, do not forget that, son.” 

“I know, I know. Curate Kahlailais would say the very same thing.”

“Some lessons taking you far longer to learn?” Rynandor quipped. 

The puff of smoke that came from the young Mer’s nostrils was an annoyed one, making Rynandor’s eyes crinkle with humor, enjoying the boy’s occasional displays of haughty spirit. “You were asking about my lenya?” _Changing the subject_ , Rynandor was practically grinning now. “How are we hiding our smoking from her?” The youngling asked, blinking away the fumes, his eyes watering.

Rynandor blew out a gust of smoke and chortled, because he knew the skooma was already affecting the boy and himself as well. “I wish that was the reason. One angry lenya would be a lot less to deal with right now.” 

“'Nandor, we are talking my lenya.” The boy gave him a look, his white cheeks already starting to blush the faintest of pinks from the effects of the skooma surging through his system, raising an eyebrow. “You have _seen_ her angry.” He made a walking motion with two fingers towards the fiery view from Rynandor’s window, a mischievous grin dancing across his face. “I say we just walk _her_ through tha gates!” 

“The Daedra would surrender immediately. A fine idea, boy. I shall bring it up in the next council meeting. Probably the best battle strategy I have heard this whole bloody time.” 

They laughed together and enjoyed the few more moments of smoking and comfortable calm that can only be had with true friends before Rynandor spoke again, the bit of his pipe still in his mouth. “I have a favor to ask of her, Ronnie.”

The flash of deep worry in the young Mer’s eyes was enough to let Rynandor know what was on his mind.

 _Aye, I lied to you, I will ask of your family, demand of them, because I must protect the Tower, boy. It must endure. Forgive me._

A final slow gust of smoke was blown before Ronnie extinguished and set down his pipe, the Knight-Paladin’s demeanor returning faster than one could say ‘Auri-El’s bow’. 

“Yes, Master.” Said with a sense of resigned duty that left the Archmagister’s heart suddenly quite heavy.

“Tell her to report to me, I will need her skill at the forge. I have asked that all the smiths report to me. And the forges in the depths of the Tower have been lit.”

Rynandor could see the creases to the young brow form anew, his red-orange eyes, now a smidgen bloodshot from the heavy smoke, searching the old Mer’s for an explanation for the strange request. Rynandor remained seated at his desk, offering none. 

“Go,” Rynandor ordered before returning to his pipe, to brood. “That is an order.” 

“At once, Archmagister.” Äelberon bowed, taking the time to put his pipe away before he left. 

***

His ata had selflessly remained at Dusk with a band of retired soldiers and Curate Kahlailas, the Vestige, to aid in the city’s evacuation, warding off the Daedra while the citizens fled to The Point. They had offered their home, an isolated grotto, to their people. The cave entrance, easily defendable by the warriors who remained. And Äelberon knew they would defend The Point to their last breath, honored to die so that the People would live. Though the soldiers were blessed by the Vestige’s fighting presence, wife had not heard from husband, and son had not heard from ata in many days and both now assumed the worst. 

Äelberon hoped they had died with honor, weapons in hand, reflections of the Outsider and his ancient ways.

Ever industrious, his lenya had not let the impending terror or her own deep grief fill her with despair. When he found her at the Tower Barracks, she was calmly fastening a young warrior’s cuirass while the Mer waited patiently. No doubt, she had just repaired it. He stood, smiling, observing her work, the action taking him back to his days as a boy, watching her at her forge, his ever scuffed up elbows propped upon the weathered wooden railing, his little fists holding up his chin, his eyes squinting against the sting of the smoke. 

She wore the simple rough-hewn dress of a smith and a thick leather apron. Her long silver-white hair was bound in two great braids that extended beyond her waist, but he could see that many, many little wisps had already escaped to frame what he thought as a boy was the most beautiful face in all of Tamriel, what he still believed. That he learned later that she was considered very ugly by his People, with her long, flat features and prominent chin, did nothing to sway his opinion of her face, her warm smile, her twinkling eye. That beautiful face now sported several large grease stains, which only broadened his smile and he leaned against the Tower’s wall, just watching her. Proud that she was his lenya. It was clear from the grease stains and the honest sweat on both brow and clothing that she had done far more than fix the young soldier’s armor today. Her long, pale fingers worked deftly, fasting the armor quicker than the young lad could probably do on his own. 

Äelberon had his father’s size, his nose, and all of his vices, he thought with a wicked smile, but he had his mother’s look and countenance. Save the eyes. His eyes were his own, for her eyes were the eyes of a Snow Elf, that strange light blue, like crystal to him, though she herself called herself Altmer. And his father had the deep golden eyes of a more typical Altmeri shade. No, Äelberon's eyes, they were his own. She looked up and caught his proud gaze, and aye, she had his shyness, for she blushed light pink, around the cheeks and the tips of her pointed ears. Just like him. She had aged a bit since the sky began to burn, the fine lines around her eyes and mouth more prominent, her face more drawn, but those crystal blue eyes of hers were still warm and merry when she saw her son. Because, of course, he was sporting his father’s silly grin. 

The little aican nut did not fall far from the tree.

“There ya are, Kinsmer.” She nodded, finished. 

The soldier, probably from a minor noble house, took a moment to inspect her work, his nostrils flaring, which threatened to morph Äelberon’s grin into a frown, but the Mer then smiled, said his ‘thank you’s and walked away, saving himself from a sound smack to the side of the head if he had dared cause his lenya grief. She wiped the sweat from her brow and aye, another grease stain was born. 

Äelberon’s lenya rose from the stone bench she had been sitting on and managed a small curtsy. 

“Knight-Paladin.” 

_Oh no, not with me, you don’t. I don’t care if I’m Auri-El himself!_

He grabbed her hand and pulled her into his great arms, lifting her in an embrace, kissing her forehead tenderly, not caring about grease, or anything because she was simply his lenya and he loved her. He could feel the shock at his public display of affection, feel and see, out of the corner of his eye, their noses lift to the air in disdain. To them, touching in public was inappropriate. 

_Well fuck you, I am from the South, and I will hold my lenya._

“They’re starin’.” She whispered softly in his ear while he held her, her feet not even touching the ground. Like his ata, he could lift her clear off the ground with one of his hugs. It made her giggle and he loved the sound of her laugh, because, for a spell, it took him away from the burning skies. There was no more smoke, no Daedra, no more blood, no more cries of anguish, only her laughter and her smell. And it felt good. 

“Let ‘em.” He replied in her ear, mirroring her accent. “Maybe it’ll make ‘em take tha poles out of their arses.” 

She slapped his back. Hard. Making him grunt.

“No swearin’” She warned.

He put her down and grinned, taking a seat on the bench where she had been before. “Ya smell of grease. Oilin’ armor? Last time I checked, tha oil goes _on_ tha armor, lenya.” 

“Very funny, ya little nut.” She gave his central braid a playful tug.

He could be the grandest warrior Mer of legend, and he would still be her little nut, her little aican nut, on account of him being so small and pale when he was young, and perhaps a little bit crazy, he admitted. 

Äelberon reached for one of her braids and began to play nervously with it, unbinding and rebinding the lace that secured it, a habit of his youth that he never really broke away from. She leaned forward and he felt the kiss to the top of his own plaited hair. Another kiss and then he felt her wrinkle her nose. 

_Well, shit,_ he thought the smoke from outside would have covered that up. He would have to tell Rynandor that that did not work and they would have to come up with something different for next time.

“Ya smell, boy.” She said, bringing her hand down to lift his chin so he could look at her. “And don’t go saying that it’s because ya were outside. I can smell tha difference. You’ve been at it again.” She shook her head. “Bloody Oblivion, just like yer father...” 

She stopped herself immediately, knowing that she had mentioned his ata and he just swallowed, knowing that his face was no longer communicating humor, but rather indecision and a certain sadness. He desperately wanted the banter, for her to bitch forever about all his naughty habits. He wanted to just sit by the fire, have honey nut treats. He wanted to be home, with both of them, and he wanted the skies to be blue again, the stars to shine in the night sky, to smell something other than smoke and blood. To see something besides the daedra gathering and his people fleeing. He felt himself bite his lower lip, looking away from her and he could not help it when his head rested against her side, releasing a ragged sigh. It was too much emotion on display, considering the public setting and his status, but he did not care. 

Äelberon first felt her hands on his shoulders, felt her fingers trace the etching on the pauldrons of his plate armor that she herself had made him. But she knew exactly what he needed and the hand that had traced the etching soon found the back of his neck, close to the scalp. Her fingers applied a soothing delicate pressure that only she was capable of. Since he was tiny, she did this. 

“What is it, my little nut?

“Everything...” The Tower Knight managed, perfectly fine with her calling him ‘little nut’, in front of people he knew were staring. He did not care. It was her hand that finally eased the pressure building in his head since the morning. After a few moments of her precious peace, he removed her hand and straightened his back, though he still held the white hand that had so easily renewed his strength when everything else failed. “The Archmagister Rynandor wishes that you report to him.”

It was her turn to play with her braids and that gave him reason to flash her a tired smile. “I am surprised those braids aren’t wee stubs by now, lenya.” 

“I know, I know.” she shrugged, giving him a knowing nod. She then grew shy, turning her face away from him, a gesture that was the mirror of his own at times, her crystal eyes downcast. “And what would tha Archmagister of Crystal-Like-Law want with a mere smith like me?”

Äelberon rose to his full height, but aye, he would still hold her dear hand, instinctively rubbing the now sometimes arthritic joints. “He has requested that all smiths report to him.” He explained, returning to his more formal speech. “ I do not know why.” He gestured with his head towards the doorway to the barracks. “Come, lenya, I will escort you.” He said as formally as he could, though he could not stop the reassuring squeeze of her hand. Together, they left the barracks, crossing towards the Tower steps. They climbed, higher and higher and he knew her eyes were on the tree line. She was once a bowmer too.

“They’re closer. I can see the gates, the paler flame.” She remarked, her crystal eyes narrowing at the forest. 

“Aye, they are now among the trees, taunting us everyday," Äelberon nodded in the direction of her gaze, “but they have stopped and will not go further. Beyond our reach. We do not know why. At the best, it gives us time to plan more battle scenarios. The mages have worked nonstop.”

“And the Thalmor?” 

“They do not come, lenya. We are on our own.” 

He looked away from the treeline and they continued their climb up the Tower when Äelberon suddenly stopped, hearing loud noises from below. Screaming and shouting, the clang of weapons. Another skirmish. He squeezed his mother’s hand.

“Lenya, I must go.” 

“Fightin’? Again?” 

“Aye.” He pointed at the steps, his other hand on her shoulder. “Continue up the stairs. Near the top, close to the tombs, you will find a shrine to Auri-El. Opposite the shrine is a modest room, sealed with double doors. That is Archmagister Rynandor’s study. I cannot come with you. I need to get back down there. There is trouble.”

She brought his hand to her cheek and kissed it before letting go to continue up the stairs. "Be careful, little nut."

He drew his sword and began to quickly descend. 


	8. The Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter is for mature audiences. Includes caste discrimination, implied homoerotic fantasies, cannibalism, and cultural acceptance of non consensual sex in Altmer society. 
> 
> That being said, I had a fantastic time giving Vingalmo a perspective in the grand scheme of Straag Rod and I'm glad his voice found a place in the Tower Chapters. So what's one chapter more in that saga, eh?

He was ruined. 

Vingalmo studied his friend’s features as the older Mer watched the lights of the Daedric camps flicker and dance between the stumps of the charred forest near the battlements. Ronnie had never been handsome. His face was not the correct shape, not the coveted inverted triangle, his nose far too hawkish, but it had been a noble face, arresting at times. Though rather deep set, the eyes were not squinty and piggish, nor were they disproportionately large or overly slanted. Instead, they were almond-shaped with a keen, often warm, expression, that Dusken twinkle, the skin in the corners creasing, hinting at where wrinkles would go as he aged. The mouth possessed a becoming shape, almost sensual, especially when he smiled. But now? 

He was ruined. 

Vingalmo couldn’t help staring, feeling his anger and sadness simmer anew. None who knew Ronnie in the Tower really could keep their eyes away from his face. Even the Archmagister’s golden eyes on occasion, during meetings, during lessons, could be seen staring at the now jagged thin lines of raw pink flesh that streaked across Ronnie’s snow-pale face. Healers tried desperately to help, but to no avail. The scars simply didn’t heal properly, it had been too late, he took too long to seek care. He wanted to make sure they were ‘alright’, Ronnie had said. He was being a Knight. 

Ronnie had stopped an attempted robbery by a group of soldiers against peasants, resulting in a violent skirmish. Tower Knight against Altmeri soldiers, grunts, but still trained to the lofty standards of the People. He was blocking a peasant from injury with his body when he was slashed in the face by a soldier wielding a dagger, nearly losing his left eye. Two slashes. The first began just below the left eye, cutting a jagged line across the bridge of his nose, ending just before the middle of his right cheek. The second cut diagonally across his left cheek, intersecting with the first , close to his nose. But, still, despite the great crime committed against him, he fought to subdue the robbers, taking no life. _The Mercy of Auri-El_ , Vingalmo thought with a bitter smirk. 

The soldiers were publicly flogged and then held for final judgement. _Protect the innocent_ , Ronnie had sworn _. They were fucking peasants! Look what protecting them has gotten you, Ronnie._ The Knight-Paladin of Auri-El protested vehemently and did not want to press charges, citing that the Mer were under duress, that they needed help, guidance. Compassion. They indeed seemed repentant, so shocked that he, a Priest and member of the Wise, had not killed them outright. He wanted to show mercy in accordance with his Tenets, and he was simply a kind Mer, but what Ronnie wanted the moment Vingalmo’s conjured blade slid through the offending Mers’ chests at the Archmagister’s stern command didn’t matter. Ronnie didn’t understand, but he and the Archmagister did, Magister Lilandtar as well, even his own lenya. 

He was ruined. 

All understood and they cried for vengeance. Vengeance for their beloved Eagle who was good and true. Ronnie was a Priest and a member of the Wise. To strike one of that echelon. It only meant one thing. Death. The law was transparent, clear. And Vingalmo was glad to strike the blow for his brother in arms. Because it wasn’t just for the pride of the Wise and to maintain the proper social order in this time of great uncertainty. His friend had been destroyed. His sweet, kind, dear friend who, for all his oafishness, had been somehow beautiful in his own special way. There would be no marriage now, no house, no legacy for him. Because no She-Elf would ever take him as husband with a face like that. 

The revenge for Ronnie was worth the Priest shutting down in a brooding grief for several days afterwards, not communicating with any of them beyond acknowledging and following orders. Not understanding what all the fuss was about. Lamenting the waste of life. ‘It is only my face and not worth killing for’, he had said. 

Only his face, Vingalmo frowned. All was forgiven eventually and they were fine again. Better even, at least in Vingalmo’s eyes. Because the Tower finally seemed to acknowledge who Ronnie was. They looked past his Fishermer’s heritage and saw what he had achieved. He was a member of the Wise and it served the soldiers right. _You do not strike a member of the Wise. You do not ruin such a promised life so flippantly._

But he was still ruined all the same, Vingalmo released a tiny sigh, unable to gaze anymore upon Ronnie’s ugliness. 

Ronnie turned at the sigh, furrowing his brow when he observed what was in Vingalmo’s hand, his mouth slightly agape with amused shock. “Galmo, does Master Lilandtar know?” 

Vingalmo took a defiant bite from a sweetroll, savoring the sweet icing and putting away his melancholy. Stolen, straight from Master Lilandtar’s heavily guarded and booby trapped private stash. _Illusion magic is a wonderful, wonderful thing, bless my teachers forever._ “No, and I don’t care if he finds out. Besides, if I’m going to die, I’ll have the memory of something delicious in my mouth.” He broke off a piece and offered it to Ronnie. “Want some?” 

The Dusken wrinkled his nose, shaking his head. “They are too crumbly and dry.”

Vingalmo burst out laughing. “Crumbly? Dry? Compared to what? That sawdust bread you’ve been eating? The rat jerky? You must be so sick of rice by now? Rice without even salt. Or even dried wisteria for seasoning. Now, that’s absolutely wretched.”

Ronnie’s lips thinned to a line of disapproval. “At least I know what I am eating.” 

“I’m eating a sweetroll, Ronnie. There is no dispute on that.” Vingalmo grinned, relishing another bite. “And yesterday, the beef was particularly excellent. Very juicy, Ronnie, so pink and tender. You’re missing out. The mages in the Tower have outdone themselves.” He gave Ronnie a once over and aye, the firm cheeks were more defined, and an ever so slight hollow was starting to form under his clear, red-orange eyes. It made the scarring worse and Vingalmo's soul railed against the tragedy of it all. “You’re going hungry, my friend, when you don’t have to.” He observed, his tone growing serious. “And so is your lenya.” 

“We have gone hungry before.” The Dusken countered with stoic pride.

“They know what they are doing. After all, they are only beasts and we are the People. Should we starve? Should the People die when there is a way for us to live? We have already eaten the horses. We have no cavalry. Our soldiers must remain strong, so we can fight. Is that so wrong?”

“No.” Ronnie conceded after some thought.

“There you have it.” The argument was won. “At any rate, tastes just like a fine steak, a red meat, very much like beef, at least once the mages have worked their magicks. Remember your first steak, Ronnie?”

“Like it was yesterday.” The Dusken closed his eyes briefly, his face blissful. _Bet you’re tasting it, eh?_

“Was the day we met.” Vingalmo continued, enjoying the memory. “Can’t believe you had never had steak before.” 

“Well, I am from the coast and it is not an allowed food for my station.” 

“True, but you like your steak. I distinctly remember you putting away two large ones, such a piggy Dusken...” 

“But, no one should die, Galmo.” Ronnie suddenly shuddered, facing the Daedric camps again, his mood growing quiet. “It is wrong. To kill them is wrong.” 

“Surprised you’re so squeamish, rat eater.” 

“I would rather you ate rats.” Ronnie replied emphatically. 

“Beasts all the same.” 

“No, _not_ the same.” The Dusken shook his head in total disgust, his forehead gaining creases of worry, as if he was afraid for Vingalmo’s mortal soul. The look from his friend made the Kinsmer want to forget the whole conversation before Ronnie started another argument and they would spend another few days not talking to each other. They didn’t agree and that was that. Besides, it wasn’t like they were being cannibals. They were eating the meat of beasts. Nothing more. Ronnie was being extremely unreasonable, stubborn. And he was hurting for it. How was he supposed to fight properly if he was starving?

Vingalmo took a lick of frosting from the sweetroll, enjoying the rush of sugar into his system and decided to change the subject. “How is your Lenya, by the way?” 

“Exhausted. They ran out of supplies late yesterday. I will need to tend to her rheumatism again. Her joints are badly inflamed, she did too much.”

“She is Dusken, what did you expect?” 

“True.” 

“Well, at least she doesn’t have to kill herself at the forge anymore.” Vingalmo relaxed, leaning against the wall of the battlements, breathing in the rather fresh night air. For the first time in many days, they could tell it was nightfall, see the moons through the burning sky, like a teasing veil. There was even a gentle breeze. To him, it felt like the cool summer rains that would fall upon his ata’s coffee plantations at the foothills of Eton Nir. “I honestly don’t know why the Archmagister sent the smiths to make weapons in the first place. It seems to me an exercise in redundancy. Unless they are making weapons for you!" He allowed himself a peal of laughter, enjoying his sugar buzz. "You are the only one who uses them anyway. What? Is Äelberon of Dusk, the mighty Eagle of Auri-El, going to break his blades on the armor of every Daedra he meets?”

“I have my weapons.” 

Vingalmo moved closer to his friend, his golden-armored hand finding the Mer’s forearm. “I’m teasing you, friend, you know that, right?”

“Even a dunce like me can figure that out, Caemal.”

The Kinsmer relaxed when Ronnie called him by his House name, meant he was in a funning mood and Vingalmo liked that. It made the scars on his face fade a little before Vingalmo’s eyes and his friend wasn’t so ruined. 

“But I truly don’t understand the Archmagister’s motives.” Vingalmo mused after a few moments had passed, now standing next to Ronnie, though he chose not to face the Daedric camps and the burning skies. “We do not need them. Our conjured weapons serve us well.” Feeling the energy, he allowed his hand to gather in the deep, cold purple light of Oblivion. He raped from the unholy plane and brought forth his own prisoner in the form of a jagged sword. Bound to serve him, bound to kill for him. A slave. Ronnie’s nostrils flared in response, his eyes narrowing and there it was, a faint lavender-gold upon his right hand, his instinctual reaction to Vingalmo’s spell. The Priest’s mystical counter. Banish. 

Vingalmo chortled at Ronnie's righteous display, enjoying the subtle heat that the Dusken’s glare brought to his cheeks, and swung his Daedric sword several times, watching the unnirnly blade’s light slice through the night air. So light, so perfect. Ronnie eyed him carefully. “What?” He leaned closer, whispering in Ronnie’s ear. “You think it’s going to turn and bite me?” 

“They _are_ Daedra.” Äelberon smirked, cocking an eyebrow.

“No. I am in complete control it. It is bound to me. Now, imagine if you had a bound bow at your side? They are lighter, faster, you never run out of arrows...” His eyes locked with Ronnie’s. “No one in the Tower matches you with a bow, my dearest Dusken. You would be as Auri-El upon this very world and I?” He smiled warmly, the sugar in his body reducing his inhibition. It was not like any of his house could see or ridicule his informal conduct anyway. “I would be your ever devoted Trinimac, sword in hand, ready to cut out hearts for the great cause of the Blessed Isles!”

Ronnie shook his head. “Xarxes’ arse, ya are buzzed on sugar, Galmo. Be careful or Boethiah will eat ya up and crap ya out too.” 

Vingalmo laughed, savoring the last bite of his sweetroll. “Always with a shit joke. I’ll say my penance to the Five on Sundas.” 

“Galmo, I am not joking.” The playful Dusken accent was suddenly gone. “It is against the true faith of the Five and the People must not give in to false pride. There is no truly controlling the Daedra. They _are_ the others.” There was a darkness in Ronnie’s voice and Vingalmo frowned at his friend's persistent stubbornness, his religion. He tilted his head to the side while his eyes scrutinized the blade before them, not understanding how the grand Priest, the Knight-Paladin before him, could tolerate being perpetually inferior in combat. He was serving the Five just as much by being victorious, by being his best for the People, while Ronnie settled for being something much less. 

“We are using their own against them, Priest. It is fitting.” 

Ronnie sighed. “Galmo, I really don’t want to fight, not today.” 

It was a sore spot between the two. In that sense, they were paired with the correct Tower Mages, for Vingalmo and Lord Larethian had similar views on summoning while the Archmagister and Ronnie avoided it. Not liking the look on Ronnie’s face nor the awkward silence between them, Vingalmo relented and sheathed the blade. The older Mer’s eyes returned to the Daedric camps, saying no more. 

Vingalmo ran his fingers through his hair, feeling the sweat at the roots. He would need drink soon, for he was hot, his light golden skin uncomfortably sticky with sweat under his Elven cuirass. And it wasn’t just from the Daedric fires or the sugar in his system. 

“It doesn’t matter anyway.” He suddenly said.

That got the Mer to turn. “What makes you say that?”

“I don’t think they are coming.” He pointed to the sky. “Look at the sky, the moons appear, the Magna ge. They are afraid, Ronnie.” Vingalmo chuckled and put a hand on Ronnie’s broad shoulder, giving him a good shove. “Afraid of you, I think.” The large Mer barely moved, both hands resting on the wall of the battlements, fingers spread, almost like talons. “Perhaps they’ve seen our great Eagle perched on his aerie one too many times. Ya do stick out, ya know, all silver an’ shiny, with yer pretty long war braids.” He added with a teasing wink.

He got a chuckle from the Dusken. “I do not fucking sound like that at all, Caemal.” 

“You need to relax. They’re not coming. We are going to be alright.” Vingalmo eyes lingered on Ronnie’s right profile, the only time the scars could not really be seen. He almost looked like himself again. Vingalmo took a deep breath and leaned closer to the Mer. “Why don’t you come with me?”

“I am at my post.” 

“They are bloody not coming!” Vingalmo gestured with his head towards the doorway leading to the tower’s interior. “Come, we can go inside, where it’s cool, raid the rest of Master Lilandtar’s stores like a bunch of naughty bandits. Your ata told me stories about you, Ronnie. Once a thief always a--”

“I am no longer a Mer of seventeen, Galmo.” 

Vingalmo grew bold. “He’s got a bottle of Shimmerene wine from 389, _389_ , Ronnie. Come on, enjoy a taste with me.” 

“Galmo, what is this silliness? You know I don’t drink.” 

“You would love it. It’s sort of sweet and you like sweet.” 

“I do not drink.”

“You sure? Not even a wee drop? On my honor, Ronnie, I will not tell Lord Auri-El.” Vingalmo smiled as he placed his right hand upon his heart, feigning a solemn oath. “You can keep your hair bound and everything!” He leaned in closer to Ronnie and whispered against his ear, his lips close to the warmth, because despite the scars, there was still something there, something he could not help but like. “Come inside. It can be our little secret.” He finished with a low purr.

“Secret? What are you talking about?”

Ronnie was right, he was too buzzed from the sugar, and he quickly pulled away when he saw the flash of intense confusion on Ronnie’s face, straightening immediately. “That’s right, my friend, you don’t drink,” He quickly added, adjusting the fastening of his own cloak before he bowed, “My apologies. Tenets of the Order will be respected tonight!”

Drinking wasn’t the only thing Ronnie didn’t do and Vingalmo felt such shame at his overtness, though he kept it hidden, letting out a gust of air. Thank Auri-El Ronnie was clueless as to what had just happened. It didn’t help Vingalmo, however, that Ronnie immediately put a palm on his forehead, taking his damn temperature like the priest that he was. Then the healing magicks flowed from his hand, flooding Vingalmo with their soothing intensity, _because he tries to fix everything._ _Because naturally, when you act like that, he’s going to think you are actually sick and not anything else. It’s not like he knows that it would or could be anything else._

“Galmo, are you alright?” The Mer pressed, continuing to work, to search with his magicks for what was wrong with Vingalmo.

He dismissed Ronnie’s fussing and magicks with a wave of his hand, using his other to push the strong hand with their wonderful magicks away to rub his forehead. “We’re all just tired and you’re right, too much sugar.” Vingalmo let a wry smile find his features. “See, the Five did indeed punish me for stealing. I will have to counter this sugar.” 

“Aye, that’s the truth. But ya won’t be punished, I’ll say me prayers for ya, Caemal.” Ronnie replied, turning to Vingalmo. “Ya can count on that, always.” 

“Even if we disagree?” 

“Even if we disagree.” Ronnie’s lips formed a good-natured smile, though the charming Dusken accent was now gone, replaced by something far more priestly. “Such mundane things cannot stop true friendship, Galmo. Look at Master Lilandtar and the Archmagister, for example. They are nearly opposite in every way, they fight all the time, and yet, more dear friends I have seldom encountered.” He nodded. “And we are the same.” 

_Friends._

And perhaps it was better that way. Like any youngling, he was perhaps just feeling hard his youth. That everything could suddenly end and, and he only wanted closeness, some sort of release from the darkness of their circumstances. The finality of what war can bring. It was that way with the young, or so he was often told. They were restless, even wanton, before the marriage pool eventually called them, settled them down to do their honorable duty to Summerset. Until then, there were many dalliances, many experiments in pleasure, many dirty depravities that the young indulged in, and subjugated others to. Vingalmo hated himself then, the feelings, the erotic images and scenarios playing in his mind that often made his cheeks run hot when he looked at Ronnie or when they sparred. And Vingalmo knew Ronnie did not have those same thoughts.

Because Ronnie was chaste and that made him too decent a Mer for a mere dalliance, though it was, sadly and ironically, all that he would be good for now. No, far better for Ronnie if he kept to his chastity. He could then be seen by the People as their great pureness. Silver-white, like fresh snows upon Eton Nir. It fit the noble, stoic aesthetic of his Order, it would be easy to maintain and Ronnie would not ever be hurt, which was something Vingalmo did not want.

“So, _friend_ , what are you going to do while I’m off drinking myself silly?” He finally asked, clearing his throat a second time. 

Ronnie chewed the inside of his lip in thought, though his eyes were still on the camps, so unaware, so focused on the Daedra. “My lenya is expecting me at the end of my shift.”

“Ah.” He nodded.

“We have not seen each other much lately, she has been so busy at the forges. It will be good for her to finally rest. I missed her, Galmo. I miss him too.” 

His ata.

Vingalmo rarely thought of his parents. Were they even alive? He had no idea and he didn’t really care, yet he did care about Ronnie’s parents.

“I am glad she is finished. You can finally enjoy a decent meal.”  
  


“I know. She can make anything taste good, even what we’re eating now. Whereas I can make anything--” 

“Taste bad.” 

They laughed together because it was definitely true.

“Aye, a hot meal.” Ronnie continued. “And perhaps some music later. Rynandor is, I think, coming. He likes to visit. And then I shall settle down with a smoke and read. I will finish tonight, Galmo.” 

“The _entire_ Tower library?”

“Aye.” 

“Tongue of Xarxes.” Vingalmo cursed under his breath, in complete awe of the Mer before him. To have read every book? Madness, total madness. But that was maybe the reason for the now perpetual shadow under Ronnie’s luminous eyes. “So who won? The bet?” 

“I believe Lord Larethian stands to collect the purse from the betting pool the Tower mages and Knights endeavored to conduct at my expense.”

Vingalmo snickered. “We couldn’t help it, Ronnie. We didn’t think…” 

They didn’t think he could actually do it. The country Dusken, simple and stupid. At least that was the impression two years ago.

“He wagered it would take me two years, and he was correct. I was expecting him to bet that it would take me centuries.” Ronnie’s brow creased. “Took me by surprise. He sometimes makes me feel the weight of my former caste and his Lenya, the Grand Kinslady, utterly despises me. My steps are far too big and I am too ugly. Probably won’t even let me in her house now…” a melancholic chuckle and his eyes grew wistful. “I will miss the Magister’s younglings deeply. Lilamia, she is walking and talking now, such a sweet little chatterbox, like a wee bird, did you know that?” 

He didn’t know. And Master Liladntar was his own Tower Mage.

“And Lillandril? His last visit was well, ha! All I can say is that the aican nut doesn't fall far from the tree with that one. I will miss them, but I understand. It is for the best that they do not see me like this. That they remember me fondly as I once was.” 

Vingalmo blinked. It was the first time Ronnie dared acknowledge his disfigured face in front of him. It took him by surprise. 

“Ronnie, that hag hates everyone.” He argued. “Besides, it’s your damn long legs. Even your tiny steps are not tiny. She’s just too daft to see that Phynaster’s steps are relative to the size of the person taking them.”

“True. But it’s not just my steps anymore now, is it?” He said quietly and Vingalmo could only imagine what Ronnie was thinking. How many great houses would he now be barred from? Would he be required to wear a mask or helm at all times? How much would being among the Wise cancel out his physical deformity? Vingalmo was beginning to think that perhaps he had been too merciful to the offending soldiers and that perhaps he was wrong about Ronnie’s station among the People. There were repercussions from the action of Ronnie's scarring that would only be felt once this Crisis was over and it was clear that Ronnie had thought about them, and was already preparing for them in his mind. Vingalmo shrugged away the dark thoughts and took it upon himself to shake his dear friend of them too. 

“At any rate, Master Lilandtar is a mad, crazy, Mer for betting. He already has too much money. And you!” He grinned, pointing at Ronnie. “Crazy, mad Mer!”

“Me?” The eyebrows went up. “Why?”

“Crazy, mad Mer for actually finishing.” Another shrug of his slender shoulders. “Oh well, at least I did not bet much, Tower Knight salary and all.” 

“True.” 

“So Lenya then?” 

“Aye, when my shift ends.” 

“When you see her, give her a big kiss from her Galmo.” 

“She will like that. She has missed you too, my brother. You do not visit much anymore.”

 _Brother, that’s how he sees you_ , Vingalmo smiled at the innocence. 

“You can join us, you know. Do not drink so heavily, have a different sort of night for once, a night where you do not show up the next morning needing me to bloody heal you so you have your head on straight when Master Lilandtar barks orders at you. We’ve a fine meal planned…” He faced Vingalmo and gave a most beguiling, mischievous beam, white teeth on full display. “Rice.” 

Vingalmo laughed, giving the shoulder another pat. “No, no, no. No rice. I’m quite happy with my steak, thank you very much.” 

“Aye, that you are. But you can still visit.” 

“Maybe some other time.” 

“The door is always open, brother.” 

"I know it is." Ronnie faced the camps again and Vingalmo walked away, trying to figure out how he was now going to spend his night. _You could just join them,_ he thought. Why not? They were good people, giving him more love than his own family ever gave. 

He passed several soldiers while he walked and he noticed the mood of the battlements. So much lighter than when Ronnie was ruined. The morale so much higher. No more skirmishes. Laughter and jokes, armor already half off. Tower banners slouching as they waved in the breeze. The two moons could be finally seen through the thin veil of fire, and they guessed that it would be over soon. The Daedra would not come, stopped by their fear and by the Tower. He could smell the wine in the air, the joy of celebration. The glory of Summerset, for all time. The glory of their beloved Mantia Miscurin. Now and forever, Auri-El Adonai.

“Kinsmer!” He heard a feminine voice and paused his walking to turn towards it. From the Golden coast by her accent. One of a group of soldiers. She was golden and fair with green eyes and a dainty face, her raptor’s helm off and tucked under her right arm. A goblet full of alto wine in her left hand. Offering, her eyes dancing seductively in the torches of the battlements, asking him without words. She was joined by others, all golden and fair as well. 

He looked back once more over his shoulder at the lone Dusken standing sentinel at the wall of the battlements, his eyes on the Daedric camps, silver and proud. They were eyeing him too, only he didn’t like their faces.. The leering sneers, the winks, the flushed cheeks with their streaks of cologne-tinged sweat. One She-Elf whispered to another and with a nod, she began to saunter towards Ronnie, clearly drunk. Only it wouldn’t be a question of the Dusken, but a demand. He knew the culture of his People and he now knew what Ronnie was to them. Not truly of the Wise, he realized with a heavy sadness, no never. That had been an Illusion, his Illusion. 

She was about to speak.

Vingalmo suddenly flashed his teeth at her, grabbed her goblet like a tease, and took quickly what was being offered, joining the group, ushering them to the depths of the Tower with a roar of laughter. 

So that Ronnie wouldn’t be forced to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mantia Miscurin - Tower Crystal or just the Crystal Tower.


	9. The Key

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the third of the "Tower" chapters and is brand new material. I wanted to flesh out Aelberon's mother a little and introduce a new character. Also, my apologies for the very long delay between chapters. I've been extremely busy with work, real life, and I've got a rather large battle coming up that the lead in for is especially difficult to visualize. 
> 
> Note - the scum carp is a fish found in ESO, a rare fish to catch in Stonefalls. Since they are calling it a carp, I'm making the assumption that it's like a carp in both behavior and body type, which is a member of the cyprinid family.

The door opened and Archmagister Rynandor stepped into his closet of his study, carrying a burlap sack that he hoped was not dripping too heavily onto the floor or the scent too much of a giveaway. He disappeared into what he now considered his sanctuary in this dark time, his stomach growling with anticipation, leaving the door open for ventilation. 

“Welcome, Archmagister, and thank ya.” A cheerful voice towards the center of the room acknowledged. “He  _ still _ forgets to leave tha door open when I cook.”

“I know.”

It had been a closet where he stored most of his scrolls and supplies for spell crafting. He had many such rooms in the Tower dedicated to spellcraft. One could walk inside it. Two Altmer by one in size. More than suitable for spellcraft, but for people, it was terribly cramped by Altmeri standards. He had removed most of the shelves, though he left one narrow bookshelf so the boy could store his own supplies for their lessons. No window and that was a sad, sad thing, for he knew how the family loved fresh air, sunshine, the moon and stars, but at the same time, it was one of the few places in the Tower where no burning sky was ever seen. So he could pretend, at least for a little while, that there was still fresh air, sun, moon and stars. 

Rynandor was promptly greeted by a slip of a thing and he could not help his smile. A Nordling by the name of Hedwige, barely 3 winters, in the well-worn attire of the Altmeri working class, but the clothes were clean, the fair face and hands freshly scrubbed, and the ample blonde hair, like golden wheat just before harvest, plaited tightly against her scalp. She was cared for, dare say, loved? She was even starting to fill out and gaining weight at this time of crisis meant only one thing. 

_ Stubborn Duskens _ , Ryandor cursed, feeling his brow crease. They were going hungry to feed her. A slave. Ronnie’s entire Tower savings, spent on this one child, taking on a practice that the boy and his family found deeply repugnant to prevent something even more revolting. He found the Nordling’s intense, wide grey eyes, like pewter, their sclera as white as snow, an alien eye to an Altmer.  _ Do you even know, little Nordling, _ he wondered.  _ Do you understand what you were saved from?  _ Children had been coveted above all others in the Tower and she was so young. He shuddered at the thought, the images in his mind of what the People had stooped to.

“Nordling.” He acknowledged with a composed nod, as befitting his station among the Wise. 

“Shoes.” She said with authority, despite her size and age, the Nord accent thick, pointing a tiny finger towards a corner near the doorway. 

Rynandor smirked at her audacity, but obliged, bending to remove his leather shoes. “Of course, my dear.” He bowed his head, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling in good humor while he set them carefully next to the doorway, near what he assumed were the Lady’s boots. They were certainly too small to be Ronnie’s. The Archmagister flexed his long bare toes and followed the Nordling across his marble closet floor, now littered with carpets to keep out any chill, to a pale Atlmer sitting cross legged, tending to a small cooking fire upon a large, shallow ceramic bowl of sturdy construct, a makeshift cooking pit. Potentially dangerous in such a small space, but Äelbé was an experienced cook and he, unlike the boy, could be entrusted to remember to leave the door open to let the smoke out. At the far edge of the room were three bedrolls and an assortment of packs and sacks. Neat and orderly. And next to the longest bedroll, surrounded by crumpled papers, scrolls, and aye, a half-closed inwell, a precarious stack of books. Not so neat and orderly.

The last of the Tower’s library.

Only Ronnie was not lounging in his bedroll reading them after a hard day at his post as he normally did when Rynandor came to share a meal. Rynandor took a deep breath to quell his sudden nerves.  _ Perfect, perfect, better the boy isn’t here for this _ , he thought, fingering the ancient key in his pocket. Ronnie would not approve, but it was not the boy’s decision to make.

The Nordling did a wee bow and scurried off to take her place next to the Altmer. The Lady of the Forge--what he had taken to calling her in his mind, from her many hours laboring for him to see his plans completed-- paused from her work, wiped a stray white hair from her brow and dried her hands with her roughspun apron before she acknowledged Rynador with a low bow, still seated. 

He was in a Dusken house.

“Archmagister.” 

“My dear, dear Lady.” He bowed in turn, giving due respect to the lenya of Äelberon of Dusk, Knight-Paladin of Auri-El, Knight of the Crystal Tower, his Tower Guard.

“Oh no such fancy titles for me--” Her jaw then dropped and she shook her head, noticing both the faint smell and the water dripping from the burlap sack. “Oh no, not Master Neloth.” 

Rynandor hoisted the bag and placed it next to the firepit with a resounding thud. “Yes, Master Neloth. About time that old Telvanni got what’s coming to him.” 

“If they ever got word in that house...” Äelbé chuckled, opening the sack to peer inside. 

“Is it even bloody edible?” The Archmagister asked, standing over Äelbé’s shoulder to get a better look himself. “I tried to take it out of its tank at the last possible moment. Took me the better part of the afternoon, the stubborn thing wouldn’t budge from his corner. I got very wet in the process and... Master Neloth bit me.” 

“He bit ya?”

“Aye,verily” Rynandor frowned, showing the She-Elf the tip of his finger. Of course there was nothing on it now because he healed it, but still. “The ingrate. Is he still fresh?” 

“I’ve never cooked scum carp before and I’ve cooked near everything. It’s a Morrowind fish.” She frowned, lifting a caudal fin. “Looks a little bony, tough scales.” 

“The very image of Master Neloth, my good lady.” Rynandor joked.

Ronnie’s lenya released an easy laugh. “So my Ronnie says.” she replied, sniffing the fish. “It’s fresh. I suppose I can make somethin’ of it. It will take awhile to prepare.” She turned away from the dead fish and met Rynandor’s gaze with a sigh. “But it’s a bad omen to eat such things. He was your pet, Archmagister.” 

“We all could stand a decent meal tonight. And I will not eat the alternative and neither will you, nor Ronnie. Besides, like I said, some comeuppance for House Telvanni is in order for not treating the Archmagister of Crystal-Like-Law and his Tower Knight with the proper respect.” 

“Make yerself comfortable, Archmagister, and I will prepare it as best I can.” 

“Give the bastard a proper Dunmeri funeral.” Rynandor grinned. “Rrroast him!”

“Blasphemy! And swearin’!” She cried, though the corners of her mouth twitched, and there was definitely her good Dusken humor behind her crystal blue eyes while she began to unwrap Master Neloth from his burlap death shroud.

“Well, he bit me.” It was as close to whining as the Archmagister could muster but he was nowhere the expert that Lilandtar was.

“I’ll give ya that, Archmagister. And a spot of tea ta ease yer pain.”

“Thank you.” He bowed graciously, answering her playful sarcasm. “It  _ did _ hurt.” 

“Heddy, fetch the satchels for the Archmagister’s tea and then set him a place at the table. This will take a spell.”

The slip lowered her brow in thought, her finger at her lips. “Plate, f… fork, knife, cup, and… and… cloth for wipin’.” 

“Aye, that’s it, just like Ronnie did yesterday and now it’s  _ your _ turn. The Archmagister sits next to Ronnie and you with me.” 

“Aye.” She started towards the table.

“Heddy.” Äelbé chuckled, making the slip freeze in her tracks. “But tea first. A mage cannot be without his tea. You remember how Ronnie gets?” 

“Grumpy.” Rynandor laughed at the child’s honesty. 

“Heddy!” 

Rynandor rolled his eyes and held his hands up in reassurance. “Never apologize for the truth, Äelbé, and the babe speaks it fluently. I have  _ seen _ the boy without his tea.”

“You remember where the satchels are, Sweeting?” Äelbé asked. Sweeting was a type of apple known for its sweetness in the South, and an appropriate nickname name for the Nordling.

“Aye.” The little slip nodded, changing direction to pitter-patter to the opposite end of the closet to search through Ronnie’s things for the blessed satchels of tea. 

“Canis root, Heddy.” She winked at Rynandor. “Might as well go full Telvanni...”

Rynandor guffawed, admiring the She-elf’s quick wit as he settled into his favorite spot, leaning against the wall amongst a pile of old, but clean cushions. It was a traditional Dusken house in the middle of a Crystal Tower closet. The low table for meals was at the central location and everything else was situated around it, also low to the floor. 

“I Founded it!” The Nordling cried in triumph after some moments, bringing the satchels to Äelbé, who wiped her hands on her apron to drop some of the precious roots into a tankard of boiled water to steep. The Nordling then frowned when she resumed her place. “Ronnie needs to clean, too many papers…he messy.”

“He IS messy.” Äelbé corrected. 

“He. Is. Messy.” The Nordling repeated, sounding out the words.

“He’s a mage, my child.” Rynandor interjected.

“All mages messy, uncle ‘Nandor?”

“Very much so, but it is an organized mess and we know exactly where everything is at all times.” 

Äelbé abrupt snort only emphasized his lie. It was what mages  _ believed _ . To everyone else, it was just a bloody mess and mages only found their things because they were lucky.

“You sure?” The Nordling’s eyes narrowed and then she shook her head, coming to her own conclusions on the matter. “‘Cause sometime Ronnie spend awful lot of time lookin’, but Bé find it real fast.”

_ Caught red-handed, Knight of the Crystal Tower. _ The jibes at the boy were priceless and Rynandor was fighting hard to maintain his composure while the tips of Ronnie’s Lenya’s ears turned bright red, the only indicator that she was acknowledging the child’s continued candor.

“Well, we are looking for very important things, Nordling. And Äelbé? Call me ‘Nandor. We’ve had this discussion far too many times, and even the Nordling has it right, so please, I insist.” Rynandor shrugged, it was a losing battle with her, but he would still try. Not in public, but here? Here, he was family. “By the way, where is your messy mage?”

Dusken mothers have more pressing priorities than immediately answering an Archmagister’s questions. She handed a tankard to the Nordling, quickly repositioning the child’s hand so she wouldn’t burn herself. “Like this, Sweeting, don wanna burn yerself, eh? Now, what do we always do for guests, Heddy?” She asked thoughtfully, raising her eyebrows.

“Tea.” The Nordling nodded, rising again to present Rynandor with his tea. “Arshmanister.” 

_ May the Tower Council scream forever in agony at the mispronunciation _ , he was adoring it. 

“Thank you, my dear.” He took the tankard with a chortle. The slip did another wee bow and again found Äelbé by the fire, watching the pale Altmer’s every move in their tiny hearth. In response, the She-Elf gave the child a kiss on the top of the head, making the child cuddle up even closer to her. The display of affection was endearing. The child was no slave in this house, but family, and aye, already very much loved after such a short time.

“Very good, Heddy.” Another kiss to the child’s head before she turned to Rynandor. “Ronnie’s doin’ some tradin’.” She finally answered, resting the carp on a cutting board of pine to begin scaling it. “This will be messy, Arc-’Nandor.” He heard the scrape of a knife against Master Neloth’s bronze scales and rather than scattering everywhere, the dislodged scales began to form a rather neat pile, making the Archmagister marvel at Äelbé’s precision as she prepared Master Neloth of House Telvanni for his final journey into their stomachs. The many years as a fishermer’s wife on clear display. 

“For what?” Rynandor continued, barely ignoring his stomach’s growls at the prospect of fresh fish--real meat, again. “And with what?”

“Salt, food. His lute. He’ll be back soon.” She said, calmly gathering a pile of scales and placing them into the burlap sack with one hand, before swiping the fish with the knife on its other side. Her other hand gently separated the burlap sack from the Nordling’s curious grasp, “we’ll need that for the scales and bones, Sweet--” 

“His lute?! What?” Rynandor blustered, rising to his full height amid a flurry of pillows, forcing the She-Elf and Nordling to look up at him. “I forbid it! Where did he go? Tell me! I need to find him, stop this!”

“I’ll do no such thing.” She replied in a way that made the Archmagister’s jaw drop. 

“What?” He blinked.

“He’s forty-two. A Mer. He lives by Auri-El’s tenets and by tha way he was raised. I stand by his choice.” 

Rynandor sank back to the cushions, defeated. “But he loves that lute. It was a present, It’s valuable.” 

She scraped the scales from Master Neloth’s other side, but her expression turned warm. “Aye, and what a joy it is for a lenya when she learns her son loves her more than such a valuable thing. Loves the Sweeting...” 

And there it was, a life lesson taught by the most unlikely of creatures. Rynandor bent his head in understanding. “I suppose music can be made without one.” 

“The way he sings, aye, most definitely.” She smiled.

“I never told him I was bringing Master Neloth.”

“Does kindness need a town cryer to shout it to tha world?”

“No, my dear lady, it certainly does not. Not when it is true.” 

She furrowed his brow and set her knife down, her eyes finding his. They were such astounding eyes to Rynandor, similar in shape to Ronnie’s, only with much less of the boy’s hooded eagle quality, the slight redness and watering from the building smoke of the cooking pit only enhancing their crystalline color and clarity. Right now, they had a knowing expression, the wisdom of one who is far smarter and more aware than others gave her credit for. “Why  _ did _ ya bring Master Neloth?” 

Rynandor looked away and shrugged, tracing the stitching on the pillow that was closest to his hand to mask his building anxiety.. 

“They are coming.”

It wasn’t a question. She knew, he sighed.

“Yes, Äelbé, they are coming.” 

“I knew the sky was lyin’ when it showed the ge and moons again. Well, if it’s a trial Lord Auri-El wants, ‘tis a trial he’ll get. We’ll be ready. Ronnie will be ready.” Äelbé said resolutely, picking up her knife to resume preparing Master Neloth, though it was clear she was trying not to show how distraught she was, being brave for the Nordling in front of them who didn’t understand anything of what was happening. “He needs to eat then, needs to be strong...” 

“And so do you.  _ That _ is why I brought Master Neloth.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Auri-El’s Bow! What do I need ta be strong for? I’m no fighter, not anymore.” 

_ Stubborn, stubborn Dusken _ , Rynandor grinned, rising from his place while she bent her head at the pit again, thinking the discussion over. He brazenly walked towards the Äelbé’s assortment of packs and sacks near her bedroll and dragged a peculiar shaped one to the forefront, using his dagger to cut at its tie. An older, worn set of gilded Elven armor revealed itself and Äelbé set her knife down, looking straight ahead, stoic and proud. 

“As Khaleron, my husband, donned his, so shall I, Äelbé, his wife, don mine.” She declared, still facing forward, her countenance such that the Archmagister was suddenly humbled. Rynandor could only stare at this lady before him, poor and low in echelon, who was grander to him now by far than any of the so-called “grand” kinsladies, the children of the ancestors. Grand children, who hid behind their hooka pipes and sweet-smelling quarters in the Tower, letting others battle for them. 

“To the death?” He asked, deeply moved by her show of quiet strength. 

“Aye.” Äelbé nodded like a true soldier of the Blessed Isles. “For my land. For my son. And...” She brought the Nordling closer to her, kissing the child’s head. “For her. To me last breath.”

_ This is why you brought the key here in the first place, old Mer. She does not disappoint.  _

Rynandor cleared his throat. “And for Summerset? Would you don your armor for Summerset if I asked?” 

“I’ll already be wearin’ it, ‘Nandor, so put me in tha battlements, if ya like. I’ll stand by Ronnie, or wherever ya need me.” She smiled a haughty smile, showing her pride. It was Ronnie’s smile. “Can shoot straighter and better than tha lot of ‘em, savin’ maybe Ronnie. Maybe. He’s much to learn still.” 

“No.” 

Äelbé frowned and crossed her arms over her chest, a fire building in her eyes. “Then why ask me ta don me armor? Ya insultin’ me? Ya don think I’m good enough? That it?”

He broke strict Altmeri protocol and quickly knelt next to her, placing a hand on her forearm. Touching her. “No, I need you to be exactly who you are for Summerset, my dearest Äelbé. I need your lenya’s fierceness for what I’m about to ask of you. For our future.” He moved his hand from her forearm and broke social protocol yet again by placing his hand on the Nordling’s head, feeling the softness of the plaits, feeling his eyes brim with tears. “For hers.” 

The Nordling looked up. “Bé, why is Arshmanister sad?” 

_ Observant little one. I am terribly sad.  _

“Nothing, Nordling.” Rynandor sniffed, unable to stop himself from caressing the child’s cheek. He cleared his throat and managed a smile. “Why don’t you go watch for Ronnie, Heddy?”  _ Aye say her name, though she be a Nord and only a beast to the People. She’s no beast to me. _ “Do that for your uncle ‘Nandor.” 

“Do as he says, Heddy. Stay right at the door, where I can see ya and don wander” 

“Yes, Bé.” 

With a final nod, the slip scampered off to the door and Rynandor blinked away his tears, grateful that he was able to focus on the tasks at hand. 

“First,” he began. “Did you bring it? His Calian?” 

“Yes.” 

Rynandor sighed in relief. “Then fetch it for me, quickly, before he returns. I will sip some of this fine tea, gather my thoughts.” He retreated back towards the cushions and sat with his tea, while she went towards her bedroll, retrieving from her pack a box of carved wood, decorated with sea gulls, shells, and wisteria blossoms. He took a sip of the soothing hot liquid and closed his eyes. There was still so much to do. The armor would need to be worked on. There needed to be an answer to the profanity that was Bet and Äelberon of Dusk would be that answer. An answer the People could see, could witness in the end of all things.  _ No, not the end, the beginning _ , he swore quietly to himself. He felt Äelbé kneel next to him and he opened his eyes. 

“Will it be safe?” She asked. “It means everythin’ ta him.” 

“Yes. It will be safe. I promise.” 

Äelbé handed him the box and he looked at it. A puzzle box of such rustic beauty, each decorated lever or knob a key within a key, leading eventually to the crystal sphere within, nestled in his lenya’s silk handkerchief. 

“You look tired, ‘Nandor.”

“My burdens are heavy, Äelbé.”    
  


“I know. If there was a way I could somehow ease them, I would. You’ve been so good to our family. So good to tha Tower.”

“Do you really, really mean that? Have I been good to the Tower?”

The unapologetic smack to his forearm made him regret his question and brought some much needed humor back to his soul. “‘Nandor, Duskens never say what they don’t mean.” 

“I should know this by now, shouldn’t I?” He smirked, taking another slow sip of tea.

“Aye, ya should.” 

Rynandor carefully set the box down by his side and he reached within his bell sleeve for the key. The key to their future, at least that was his hope.  _ Hope is all you have right now, old Mer. _ “Give me your hand, Lady of the Forge.” 

“I don’t understand.” Äelbé extended her hand towards the Archmagister and he took that hand in his, holding it for a spell, noting its many callouses, the rough skin, the slight swelling of the joints from chronic rheumatism of a life’s many, many hard labors. He felt the magic surge within him and he healed, repairing the damage, reducing the swelling. 

“Ronnie does for me all tha time…” she smiled, while he worked. “I keep tellin’ him ta stop, not ta fuss. I don’t have anythin’’ that needs such fancy fixin’.” A sigh.” Just gettin’ older is all…” 

“Ronnie will need his magicks for what’s to come and you will need your strength. Besides, we are family, eh?” He replied, giving her her hands a final squeeze before finishing his work and placing the sacred key upon her palm. 

“What’s this?” 

“This key is something I have kept for a very long time. Older than me. As old as the Tower. It opens a door. Follow the path behind the forges and through that door, Äelbé.”

“At the depths of the Tower? I have seen this door while I worked. A grand metal thing, heavy. Where does it go?” 

“When the time comes, Äelbé, you will take the People, you will lead them through this door. It leads them to the hills and slopes under our Eton Nir. It will lead our People to Survival.”

Äelbé shook her head and made to give back the key. “Ya put too much faith in me, Archmagister. I’m nothin’. Surely there are bet--” 

“You are your son’s lenya.” Rynandor interrupted. “I know full well what you are,  _ Dusken _ , because I have known your legacy, and been honored by his service to me as my Knight of the Tower.” He closed Äelbé’s hand over the key. “My faith in you, great Lady, is well-placed. With you guiding the People, you give an old Mer some measure of comfort in the coming darkness.” 

“Darkness?” 

“Aye, darkness.” 

“I am afraid.” 

It was whispered and he decided to give her some of the treatment she had given him.

Rynandor snorted. “You were so brave before, was that merely an act?” 

“How dare ya?” Her eyes flashed. She was angry now and he really wanted her angry. Because anger and fear would see the People safe and only Äelbé had the right amount of both to do what he needed her to do. 

In a move that surprised her, Rynandor brought her white hand that held the key to his lips for a kiss. He kissed a Dusken of the lowest echelon and he didn’t care, holding her hand to his bearded cheek tenderly before moving the hand to rest upon his heart. “Fear is a perfectly normal and rational thing, Äelbé. I’m terrified. Ronnie is scared out of his mind. He is scared of Bet, scared of what will happen to the people he loves if he falls to that demon. And the odds are very much against him, we both know that. The grand kinsladies shake as they smoke their hooka and give airs. Even Master Lilandtar and Vingalmo tremble under their silken sheets, though they will never admit it.” He gave her hand a final squeeze and rose, taking the wooden box in his hands. “The boy will be back soon. I will go to the tombs, to put this away, but I’ll be back. Tell him nothing, promise?”

“You have my silence.” 

“Very good.” Rynandor allowed himself a wily grin and good humor to fill his soul once again. “If you manage to make me a fine dinner out of tough and scaly Master Neloth, you are truly a miracle worker, Äelbé.” 

“We will need many miracles before this time is over, ‘Nandor.” She said quietly, moving towards the cooking pit to finish preparing Master Neloth. “Fetch, Heddy, if you please. She will wander...”

“I will.” Rynandor walked briskly to the door, only to turn a final time to face Äelbé, his nostrils flaring in defiance, wanting to show her a tiny bit of what he knew. “Do you want miracles, Äelbé?”

She snorted and gave him a chuckle that had a certain measure of Dusken acid. “Who doesn’t?”

“Then use your fear, Lady Dusken. I will use mine. And, by Auri-El,  _ know _ that your mighty Eagle will use his. And know that he will make such miracles in this Great Anguish from his fear, that he will become a legend to our People.”

_ The shield will hold, against all odds, it will hold.  _

Rynandor laughed when the She-Elf’s wet wash rag struck him square in the chest and she rolled her eyes. “Don tell me ta channel me fear, old Mer. Legend me arse, didn’t tell me ya were hittin’ tha skooma  _ that _ hard before ya came, eh? Go bring Heddy inside.” She shook her head, turning Master Neloth over to begin fileting the carp, still mumbling to herself, though he did see her tuck the key into her apron’s pocket. “Boy canna even clean up after himself and shuts tha door while I’m cookin’, nearly killin’ us with the smoke. But sure, legend, Aye…” 

She was joking, but her demeanor was clearly different, less fearful as she fileted the carp with renewed vigor.

“We’ll have a bet on it then.” Rynandor challenged.  _ Let’s see where the love of gambling truly comes from in that family. _

Another laugh. “Ha! Ya  _ have _ been at that skooma! A bet it is then, I’ll see yer grain of rice with five wee grains of me own, because that’s all the currency there is now. No skooma for you t’night, old Mer, that’s for sure.” 

“It’s a bet then.” 

“Aye, it’s a bet.” 

_ No wonder Ronnie was such a gambling Mer, it came equally from both sides.  _

With a Scholar’s bow and a smile, he ushered the Nordling back into their closet haven and made his way towards the tombs of the Aldmeri ancestors.  _ He will be a legend. The bow will challenge, the shield will hold, and the sword, the sword…  _ He suddenly stopped, wiping a stray tear from his eye.  _ Don’t think on what becomes of the sword, where it will eventually lie, think of only of the now, and that she will become a legend too.  _

_ Because I, Archmagister Rynandor the Bold, Seer-mage of Crystal-Like-Law, have seen it, and what I see is always so... _


	10. The Eagle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains graphic descriptions of violence. We are talking war time atrocity levels here, so just be aware. It's also weirdly metaphysical. But, what can I say? This is for mature audiences.

_**433 3E, Great Anguish, Battle for Crystal-Like-Law** _

_They peered over the chasm, deep into what lay below, into the ancient grotto, sheltered within mountains deep. The filtered brightness of Magnus scattering rays mixing with the light mist to create prisms of color..._

_Nothing can ever truly be destroyed, he thought, a smile of silent satisfaction finding his features while he watched her, smoke flowing lightly from his nostrils._

_Nothing._

_From the blasphemy of destruction now bloomed dense fields of delicate yellow flowers, covering the rocks, filling the grotto with their fragrance. The pools, once blackened and congested with ash, were again like mirrors of ultimate clarity. And they rained. Aye, the ancient trees rained again, their showers of salmon-pink blossoms, shedding the tears of the Passion Dancer’s joys while her sacred moths flew upon the grotto’s winds, twirling, spinning, catching the cosmic light of the sun on their wings._

“Zahnirbildaar….”

_A new voice. Distant. Not welcomed._

_He heard her tiny gasp, like the lightest of breezes._

_“It’s…” she spoke in awe, her voice naught but a whisper. “It’s... your song…it’s real.”_

_“Of course it is.” He heard himself utter softly, because he did not want to destroy the moment either._

_“You understand.”_

_“All of it.”_

_She looked up and smiled at him. “Then sing it again for me, my gentle Beron…”_

“Zahnirbildaar...I summon yo--” 

_Hi krilon tinvaak dii faan ontzos, he snarled in his mind. You dare speak my name again? Bo, Elf Wizard! Leave me to the peace of my slumber-dreams! I am not whom you call and I am no slave to your whim. I am Beron and she is Ana. My Ana._

_Dii umriid…_ _my treasure_.

 _“_ Zahnirberon…It is time...” 

_No, it is NOT._

_He again ignored the voice and for the thousandth upon thousandth time, he sang for his beloved Ana, soft, clear, and low, the warmth of his breath against her ear, the hairs of his long beard making her shiver with promised delights of evening’s magic. He sang his song... for her. She knew all the words by now, understood their deep symbols, and her hand clasped his, cool against the blood-fire of his own._

_She gazed and saw the beauty of it all._

_And sighed, leaning against him._

_But he, he only saw... her._

_Only her… the pale beauty of Jone shrouded in Ebony’s night. Star-fire in her eyes._

_“Ebonnayne…” He murmured passionately into her hair as his arms wrapped tightly around her body from behind, his lips caressing her temple with a tender kiss--_

***

“Äelberon! Ronnie!”

He woke with a violent jerk, blinking several times to focus his vision in the darkness. 

“Boy?”

“Huh?” Äelberon shook his head, clearing his mind. He saw her face, but the image rapidly dissolved, replaced by the dim outlines of the closet and the Archmagister leaning over him, the old Mer’s hand on his shoulder, a small orb of candlelight hovering over his head, casting the lines of his face in an unusual harshness. “Master?” He blinked.

“Well, you are finally awake.” The Archmagister chuckled, though Äelberon saw an odd glint in the Mer’s narrowed light orange eyes, saw that the old mage was pale, the pallor Äelberon sometimes got when trying a spell that was far too difficult still. “You did not want to wake up. In fact, you were quite rude about it.”

“My apologies.” Äelberon groaned and put a hand over his eyes to rub them and his forehead. His head didn’t hurt, but the fog of deep sleep had yet to leave him.

The older Mer’s features grew thoughtful. “A lovely melody though. I’ve not heard that one from you before. And the text…I know no place like what you described. You have an astounding imagination, Ronnie, astounding.” 

Äelberon furrowed his brow and partially rose to rest on his elbows. “What melody?” He asked.

The Archmagister’s brow furrowed. “The one you sang in your sleep, boy.”

He frowned. “I sang? I did not sing. I would remember that.” The brief flash of concern in Rynandor’s eyes was promptly ignored when Äelberon finally noticed the empty bedrolls next to him. His muscles tensed with worry. “Where are they? My _family_?” His tone was more agitated in the presence of the Archmagister than he intended.

“Do not worry, son. They are safe, deep within the Tower. I gave your Lenya the key.” Rynandor whispered, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. 

“The key?” Äelberon understood as soon as he said the words and he nodded slowly, approving of the decision. “It is time, then.” Not a question. Even his voice seemed to change, lowering with the weight. The burden of thousands of years it felt like to him.

“Aye, boy, it _is_ time.” 

_Why did ‘Nandor sound so tired?_

“Did you always know?” Äelberon dared ask, looking up at the Archmagister. 

“Yes.” 

He had so many more questions for Rynandor, but now was not the time and perhaps it all would remain a mystery of Rynandor the Sapiarch, the Seer-Mage of Crystal-Like-Law. 

Now was the time to act. To fear and fight. Not to talk.

“Auri-El’s will be done.” Äelberon whispered back solemnly, rising from the bedroll.

***

It was the Archmagister himself who led Äelberon upwards to the Ancestor tombs, where he noticed that his armor, freshly oiled and buffed to a great shine, had been placed upon one of the white marble tables normally reserved for the ritual cleansing, anointing, and rewrapping of their ancestor’s preserved bodies. The only ones never to be burned, because they were not dead, but transcended. The hope that they would visit Nirn again and tell them the how of it, still burned into the heart of every Altmer. His weapons were close by, upon another table and he began to wonder what had happened while he slept.

“Why is my armor here? The tables are only for the transcended, Master. We break custom.”

Rynandor did not answer. Instead he reached for the cuirass and with the skill of an experienced squire, began to fit Äelberon into his silver-plated cuirass. 

“Bind your hair while I fit your armor. War braids in the tradition of your old Outsider.” 

“War braids?” 

The Archmagister nodded, a knowing smile finding his lips. “Aye, war braids. And only say the Greater Tenets, if you please, we do not need to hear about punishment today.” Äelberon cocked an eyebrow, _abridge the Tenets?_ “Don’t give me that look boy, we are not exactly luxuriating in time. Here you go.” 

A comb was handed to him and he began to work on his hair. “Very well, Master.”

“Auri-El is the light of the world,” Äelberon intoned, while he formed a portion of his hair into the Order’s distinct top-knot. The rest would be plaited into what Rynandor requested. War braids, “the Soul of Anui-El, who is the soul of Anu, the Everything. The Dragon God of Time and these are the Tenets of His Holy Order. Commit them to your Body. Commit them to your Heart. Commit them to your Mind. Commit them to your Soul, so that you may ever serve in His name and achieve transcendence in accordance to His steps.” The top-knot finished upon reaching the cadential flourish at ‘steps’, he began to intertwine his priestly leathers within the thickest central plait, the plait that sprung from the left-over hair of the top-knot, plaited close to his scalp. “These are the Three Greater Tenets.” He continued. “On these three hang all others. 

Love and Honor the Lord Auri-El. Know that He is the King of the Gods and that none are above Him, save Anui-El and Anu, though many serve Him and many stand with Him.

Walk always in the light of Mercy and Compassion, so that all may bear witness to His true goodness.

Protect and Honor the weak, the innocent, the old, and the young from the evils of Nirn with your service.” 

“Now, sing for me...” the old Mage suddenly asked while he worked. “Sing me your Tam service.”

_“Then sing again for me, my gentle Beron…”_

Her image danced through his mind briefly, making him start. 

_“I will sing for you.”_

He answered, only it was not his voice.

“Ronnie?” 

She was again gone. 

_I will sing_

Without thinking, Äelberon’s voice erupted into a Tam service, the ancient florid melodies with their angular modes echoing within the faceted crystal dome roof of Crystal-Like-Law, creating delayed harmonics that would carry downwards well into the Tower depths. A phenomenon of acoustics that rivaled the tonal architecture of the Dwemer. An acoustics of faith rather than one of science. 

It was only then that he heard the screams. Terrible screams, from outside the Tower, under the burning skies, and he stopped, feeling the fear surge in his heart. His People were screaming and among the screams were frightful yells, laughter, and shrieks. The Daedra. Did they hear him?

“Do not stop, boy. _Sing_ .” Rynandor shook his head, and knelt, now fastening the buckles of his boots. _His boots!_ “Sing, Äelberon of Dusk, Priest of Auri-El. Sing, so the Daedra hear you.” 

At first, his normally clear baritone voice trembled, faltering and cracking amid sounds so awful to bear that his blood ran cold, his hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He was forgetting words, the chant’s mode, shaming his People with his terror.

“Go on.” Rynandor urged, seemingly unafraid. “The chants of righteous cleansing…you know it by heart.” 

Äelberon took a deep breath and closed his eyes tightly, barely able to control his trembling and the hammering of his heart, while he continued to plait his hair. Spars were one thing, guard duty another, the skirmishes, the attacks of the Beautiful. But this? This was so different. 

This was so final. 

He could hear the multitudes. There were thousands upon thousands of them. The groan of their spiked war machines, the thud of their footfalls upon the earth. Smell the decayed stench of their passing. 

The night had come last night, the moons appeared. There was celebration among the battlements. It was supposed to be over. His breath came out in a ragged gasp. And the security was a lie. A trick that even he had wanted to believe. What were the chant words? He always remembered everything! 

_I cannot remember. I cannot remember!_ His throat closed in panic and he could make no noise. The Daedric laughter grew louder, pounding in his ears. 

“Now, Priest.” Rynandor’s urging morphed into a command. “Sing.” 

_Use your fear._

A tiny voice sounded from deep within his soul. He thought of his lenya, his ata, Hedwige, Galmo in the battlements, Anwe and Elenwen in Cloudrest, Rynandor, Lilandtar, Lilandtar’s dear children, even the awful Lilisephona who would never let him show his face to the little ones ever again. And Khalailas. He thought of Khalailas, imagined him singing at The Point. Imagined all the people who mattered to him. 

Her...

_Protect and Honor the weak, the innocent, the old, and the young from the evils of Nirn with your service._

_Use your fear._

When he opened his eyes again, he found his voice. Rynandor’s thin tenor intoned the congregational responses, their voices echoing through the tombs, filtering below, fighting to overcome the screams of terror and demonic bellows. And he hoped his People heard him, heard the hope in his chanting. His voice swelled as he started the chant of Auri-El’s Light, feeling his emotion build. 

_We are not over yet._

Rynandor continued to fit his armor, the job of a servant. He was a Tower Mage, a Sapiarch, their Archmagister, and yet he did this.

He was singing the melisma to the final “Adonai Ali” when Rynandor finished, the old Mer placing his hands upon his shoulders, gazing intently into Äelberon’s eyes. 

“Master?” He asked after his last note ushered in a prolonged silence, searching for a reason behind the great respect he was just shown. It was an even bigger puzzlement when the old Tower Mage suddenly embraced him, holding him tightly. 

“You…and your family,” the old Mer began, his voice thick with emotion. “have given me back a bit of what I had once lost. And for that, I am eternally grateful.” Rynandor broke the embrace and cleared his throat, wiping the tears from his eyes with an indigo bell sleeve. All traces of apprehension and sadness then left the old Mer’s lined features, replaced with a look of resigned serenity that put Äelberon in a state of great admiration. He knew no one with such composure, save perhaps Khalailas, the survivor of the Planemeld, the Vestige. 

_I will not disappoint you, my Masters,_ he swore. 

Äelberon reached for his green tower cloak, only for Rynandor to stop him. “No, boy. Not that one. Today you wield your weapons and magicks for more than just a Tower of marble, crystal, and glass. For more than our Mantia Miscurin.” Rynandor pointed to the shrine of Auri-El within the tombs. “Today you do battle for our people, for our survival, in His name.” He then pointed to Transparent Law, the large crystal pulsing luminously red under the Tower’s faceted crystal dome. “And you do battle for this. You will wear Auri-El’s colors today, Knight-Paladin.” 

Rynandor then retrieved Äelberon’s Order cloak from the ritual table where his armor had lain. Almost lovingly, the Archmagister traced the golden embroidery of Auri-El’s sun upon the light grey fabric. He then draped it over Äelberon’s shoulders, fastening it to his cuirass. Äelberon made to grab his helmet and again Rynandor stopped him.

“You will not wear your helm today.”

“No?” 

“Kneel, Äelberon of Dusk, Knight-Paladin of Auri-El.” Commanded Rynandor the Bold.

Äelberon knelt upon one knee without hesitation. 

“There is no Curate here to bestow blessing upon you today, so I will bless you in my own way. I have worked all night to do so. Do you feel it, my son?” 

To be honest, Äelberon did not know what to feel. It was strange, like energies of all different kinds penetrating his body. Magicks? He did not know. And yet, he could see no magicks emanating from his armor. His armor was not enchanted, nothing he possessed ever was.

“What have you done?” He managed.

“You are like the morning sunrise, bright and pure. You are... Alaxon.” 

_Perfection?_

He watched as Rynandor took a small, flat silver vial from his robe pocket and opened it. “This war paint has spent an evening under the Shrine at the Tombs of our Ancestors. It has been blessed, at least to me, it has been. You will wear upon your face His emblem as Knight-Paladin of His Order. Just as you did when you took His Holy Orders. Do you remember that grand day, Ronnie?” 

Äelberon nodded as Rynandor began to paint his face. “None could touch your glory that day, Äelberon of Dusk.” The Archmagister reminisced. “Not even Anwe could touch you, as golden as she was, like Summer’s brightest sunshine. But you are sunlight of a different kind. The kind that challenges the deepest darkness. The first dawn to her midday. And aye, your glory made people angry, but they do not understand what you are.” He said nothing, letting the old Mer continue his musings. “You _are_ the real Sunbird, you know. Not the fake ones that tried and failed. But real. Dancing in the sky and fire-tongued, my son.” Rynandor shook his head and chortled. “Oh, _they_ will _never_ understand you, they will hunt you, but the three queens will understand, their colors black, gold, and indigo, they will understand. And…” Rynandor flashed a grin, his eyes bright, “they will follow. From Summer to Winter, they will follow you, Umbr’-Aka, follow you, and watch you cast your ruby crystal upon the ice, to make touch the sky what had once fallen.” 

When Rynandor was like this, in the throes of his seering, it was best not to question, or even talk, only listen, but Äelberon understood none of it and frankly, the strange speech was nearly as disturbing as the ever growing din of Deadric utterances and Altmeri cries of agony.

Satisfied with his work, his eyes no longer glazed from his visions, Rynandor put the vial of war paint aside and wiped his hands carefully on a linen. A flash of purple light recalled a box of silver and while it still hovered suspended in the air, he opened it, removing a feathered circlet of silver metal and a central moonstone, its deep opalescence unlike any moonstone Äelberon had ever seen. It was like the very ge dwelled within the body of the stone. Trapped by it.

“The Ayleids wore feathers in their hair…” The old mage murmured absently, “Her champion wore them too, golden ones, and so shall you. Feathers of silver. The Daedra should see the face of their slayer. As the Whitestrake gazed upon Umaril.” Rynandor continued while he fit the circlet on Äelberon’s head. “I want them to know true fear, my Sunbird. I want them to see the Pale Elf from Dusk and know that he was chosen by Auri-El to defend the Tower. That he is His Tower of Strength. Silver and white, like the snow over Eton Nir. And from his throat shall come such a roar of defiance that even gods shall tremble.”

Rynandor then retrieved Äelberon’s bow, sword, and shield and placed them reverently upon the ritual table as Äelberon remained kneeling, keeping his head inclined downwards. No emotion would be shown, he was no longer ‘boy’, he was a Knight of the Crystal Tower and he would show the Mer who just gave him the utmost respect, respect in turn. Äelberon let his mind clear, focusing only on the task ahead, to become Auri-El’s instrument in the defense of the Tower, but more importantly, in defense of His People within. So long as that mission was accomplished, nothing else mattered. Those that loved him would understand.

“I want them to know the power of his wings.” Rynandor said as he took Äelberon’s shield and slung it upon the Knight’s back.

“His will be done.” Äelberon intoned. 

“Receive your blade.” 

Without question, Äelberon bent his head lower and extended his gauntleted hands, palms up. His mother’s blade was placed upon his hands and the Archmagister stooped and kissed the blade. “I want them to know the sharpness of his beak.” Rynandor continued.

“His will be done.” 

Äelberon too, kissed the blade before sheathing the weapon. _May her steel grant me victory_ , he offered within his thoughts. For Her. For Dusk. For his Order.

“I want them to know the sting of his talons.” Rynandor then said, finally handing Äelberon his bow, while the mage slung the quiver. The bow. A golden weapon, long and strong of limb, made in the image of his God-King’s. The present he gifted himself when he joined the Order, made by his own hands, five years advance on his Temple salary to purchase the needed materials. 

_Because, you are no true archer until you make your own weapon._

In a fluid motion he strung the great weapon, showing Rynandor that he was ready, that the fear would now be controlled and used. 

“His will be done,” he repeated.

The Old Mage then took a deep breath and put his old, bony hand on Äelberon’s shoulder. “Now rise, Eagle of our People. Rise, Eagle of Auri-El. Rise, and show these Daedric dogs what Aedric might truly is.”

Äelberon stood slowly, gazing deep into the Archmagister’s eyes.

“His will be done, Auri-El Adonai Ali.” 

*** 

In the night, they had come, while the People slept, bellies full of wine and fresh meat, many other limbs intertwined after sexual release, their banners lowered in victory. The moons and stars had come, the breeze blew cool, and they had perceived it all over.

The Daedra would not come.

But an Altmer should know better than to trust in seeing the two moons grace the sky, for they only bode ill omen to the Sundered Children of Anu. They are the corpse shells of Lorkhan, after all, the constant reminder of his great treachery and evil. 

_So… never trust a night when both Jone and Jode shine bright._

The Daedra had gathered an innumerable force just outside the battlements. Daedra as far as the eye could see. Legions of them. Thousands, like a sea of black metal against the freshly burning sky. All types. Hulking Dremora, slender flame atronachs, towering frost atronachs, quick-footed scamps delivering supplies to the Dremora captains, reptilian clanfears; their talons menacing, the intelligent robed Xivilai, and the worst, the winged Deadroths of Molag Bal and Mehrunes Dagon. And in the center of the vast force, was Bet.

The Demon of Coldharbour, a sick purple glow amidst the black. The grey-purple of death.

He was tall, towering well above the Dremora lords. His armor glowed like black, burning coals, only the flame within was lilac, not red. There was no warmth from his Daedric fire. His helmet had great black horns that curved like a ram, a reflection of his father. The skin that showed beneath the helm was the color of spent ash, and his eyes glowed with an undead vampiric fire. His mouth was open slightly, exposing his great fangs, poisoned spittle already oozing. On his right hand, he bore a great Daedric war axe that glowed grey like the realm of Molag Bal, and it was already stained with Altmer blood. His left hand glowed with a menacing red light.

And the Daedra were not alone. With them, naked, bruised, and bleeding, were thousands of Altmer prisoners. Groaning, filthy, writhing masses of sorrow. The soldiers, after hastily donning their armor, reacted almost immediately to seeing their suffering brethren and began to conjure weapons. It was time to do battle. 

Only their spells failed.

The soldiers tried again, frantically recasting their spells, again and again, but to no avail. There was great commotion in the soldier’s ranks. Cries of confusion and outrage. The Tower Mages looked concerned from their position in the back of the battlements and began to move forward. One Tower Mage quickened his pace, Lilandtar, the Lord of House Larethian, the Silver-Tongued. A mighty mage among them, a summoner, capable of harnessing even the most stubborn of Daedra into bound slavery. His face was haughty, and he immediately cast a summons. A dremora warrior, who was, at first, quite shocked to find himself surrounded by a sea of gold and moonstone armor. The grand tower mage smiled and nodded towards the Daedric hordes in arrogance, his apple-green eyes narrowed with disdain. . 

“You have no hold over a Tower Mag--”

Satisfaction turned to horror when the Dremora realized his freedom and stabbed the closest Mer to him, plunging his crooked blade deep within the golden cuirass, roaring as blood poured from the wound. First blood split. And he drank of the warmth of passing life. Hasty, uncontrolled blasts of fire magicks sent him back to his realm, but the damage was already done. 

It was then that the army heard the sound, filtering from the Tower heights, the ancient rites of their People. A beauty in the ugliness, a light in the shadow, like a single star of hope in the black abyss that was their predicament. The Daedra hissed and chattered, spit and roared in response, gnashing their teeth to prepare for the slaughter. And, just as the Altmer people understood what their pride had brought them, the singing faltered. The hope seemed to die.

The Altmeri army was without weapons, save magicks, and magicks can fail. 

_Where was Archmagister Rynandor?_

***

Bet’s booming laughter could be heard from deep within the hordes of Daedra, and he knew it sent chills through the Altmeri ranks. The chanting of their priests would be for nothing. He cried out to the army of Crystal-Like-Law. His voice, a clamor echoing throughout the battlements, drowning out the pitiful Altmeri rite that carried on.

“Watch and know true fear!”

Bet grabbed one of the Altmer prisoners nearest to him and made his way to the edge of the Tower battlements while the soldiers, mages, and trolls looked on, their faces pale. He dragged the Mer across the dusty ground like the grub that it was, the brittle grass cutting into the Altmer's skin. He then hoisted the Altmer into the air like a child's doll and threw him roughly to the ground, holding him firmly with one great armored hand. When he started to flay their brother alive with his war axe, starting at the chest, he could feel the grub’s high-pitched screams resonate throughout the Tower’s interior and he could feel them tremble inside. 

_I will eat all of you thus, rape you, and give your soulless husks to my father_ , he projected into their weak minds, flicking his tongue in delight. His satisfaction grew when several within the sea of gold collapsed, utterly overwhelmed by his mental images of rape and domination.

The music stopped. Even _it_ was afraid.

Bet looked up from his work and watched. The Altmer below him tried to crawl away, his blood staining the dry grass red as he attempted to hold his peeled skin to his chest. Hmm, not all were affected by his images, it seemed. And the silence radiated with a great calm. Fear, still, yes, but a different fear. The fear that leads to action not flight. Two Altmer appeared in the battlements within the purple flash of Recall. He smiled and studied this new thing, this was different. He sensed the Old Ways within them. Old Magicks.

The first was a final Tower Mage. Much older than the others, with a long, light blond beard and dark, plain robes. His great lined face serene. Bet snarled and spat upon the ground, this one was no summoner. It was the Sapiarch, their Archmagister. The Stone, connected to Transparent Law. His ultimate target for their destruction.

And the second. Bet narrowed his eyes to focus his vision.

A lone soldier, clad in silver-plated armor, a feathered circlet of silver upon his head. He glowed with dawn magicks and then Bet noticed the hair. Long, silver-white hair, plaited. The face painted starkly white, the pattern of a star, Bet squinted, no… it was Magnus. 

The eyes, eyes unlike any Mer’s Bet had ever seen, like two points of jeweled fire under an Eagle’s hooded brow. 

Bet’s lips curled in an angry snarl. An Aurielian was among them. And he was wrong, he _had_ seen these eyes before. 

They were Boziikkodstrun’s eyes. No, not the same color, but the same, nevertheless. The angry snarl became a sneer filled with opportunity and Bet tightened his grip on his axe in anticipation. Father would have a second great prize, to torture the jeweled fire from those eyes as well, and break the soul to make another great creation to reign over the despair of Dagon’s new world. 

But first things first. _I must feed and so must the army, a final meal before battle._

Bet released a roar that shook the earth and dragged the crawling Altmer back to continue his gruesome work, signaling his brethren to do the same. They then mercilessly grabbed prisoners by the hundreds while the Tower battlements watched, dumbfounded. The prisoners’ screams were deafening, and the dry ground finally knew moisture after so many days of drought and heat. But moisture of a most perverse kind, for it was not water that quenched its thirst, but blood. The ground below the Tower battlements became a vast, shallow sea of blood under a burning sky.

Red upon red. 

_As Dagon would wish it to be_ , Bet grinned. 

Those that had finished flaying began to consume their victims or feed them to their beasts or impale them onto their dreaded black machines in supplication to Molag Bal and Mehrunes Dagon. Sacrifices for a worthy campaign, for the destruction of the Sundered Children of Anu. But, as they mutilated and assaulted the bodies of countless Altmer, as they feasted openly, Bet began to retreat slowly back into his horde, the flesh of his meal still dripping from his chin. He crunched at the leg bone, sucking away its nourishing marrow.

The Aurielian did not stop walking. 

A pale Elf and Bet saw him coming. While the Aurielian’s comrades were stunned and unable to move, while they vomited, fainted, while they cowered before his display of Daedric might, still affected by his thoughts, their fear feeding his power, the Aurielian approached from the Tower, crossing the battlements, steadfast.

Immune.

Bet continued to retreat back slowly, this one, it seemed, could manage his fear, but it would soon be over. Like all the others, he would be unable to conjure a weapon and the real massacre would begin. He belched loudly and threw the remains of the Altmer to the ground, his craving for blood and flesh barely sated. He readied his axe. The Pale Elf still approached. Unrelenting. Bet then watched as the impossible happened, a great golden bow, hidden behind his cloak, was readied by the Pale Elf as he continued his approach, his face a chiseled statue of white marble. 

And they _were_ Boziikkodstrun’s eyes… 

_Who is this? Boziikkodstrun was dead. They were all dead, or only the very weak remained. Their black god banished through time._

_Who is this?_

His forces stared at each other in surprise and he growled a warning for them to stand their ground.

The Sapiarch then raised his glowing hands, and suddenly revealed were great stores of weapons scattered about the battlements. The Old Mage’s hands then began to glow with a pale greenish light and he was joined by other Tower Mages at the front of the line, their hands also glowing. Strong magicks were cast by the Tower Mages of Crystal-Like-Law, releasing it upon all the Elven soldiers in surge of green light. As if awakened from a nightmare, the soldiers began to quickly gather the weapons, taking up arms, their spirits and courage renewed. Their companion trolls formed ranks close behind. Their war machines also stood ready. Then together, the Altmer cried out, their voices as deafening as the screams of their brethren had been earlier, their golden weapons raised in ultimate resistance.

“FOR CRYSTAL-LIKE-LAW!!!”

It was then that the Pale Elf stopped walking, just beyond the line of Tower Mages. Alone and still in control of his fear. Immune to both his Daedric Illusion and to the Illusion of the Tower Mages. His own stance defiant, bow equipped with a golden arrow, his eyes burning with fury while his grey cloak blew in the hot breeze. Bet watched as the Pale Elf drew his great, golden bow, and cried fiercely as he let his arrow fly, his voice like a billowing thundercap.

“ _BET_! I, Äelberon of Dusk, Eagle of Auri-El, challenge YOU!”

The Daedric army followed the arrow's path as it flew far past their ranks. Its mark was true, landing right at Bet’s feet. And the Daedra, for the first time, felt fear. Bet let out a bellowing roar, angry that his forces were so easily swayed. He was not, his eyes wild with rage at the insult to his pride. He readied his great axe, beating it against his chestplate in warning.

 _Who are you? You are no eagle_ , Bet sneered. 

_A great prize._

_I will vanquish you, Aurielian. Defile you. Clip your wings. Taste of your flesh._

_And my Father will own your soul._

The challenge was accepted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I need to say much about the Dovahzul, except that I use a Legacy translator from thu'um.org because I want my dragon language to sound like it comes from beings older than five. Again, my Altmeris is also a composite of Aldmeris and Altmeris from Hafnir's languages. 
> 
> Dovahzul 
> 
> Bo - Go
> 
> Altmeris
> 
> Ebonnayne - dark-haired  
> Alaxon - Perfection  
> Umbr'-Aka - Grey dragon


End file.
